Lightness and Weight
by Nyx Underwood
Summary: Sequel to "The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair." The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become.
1. Chapter 1: The Tree of Life

_Lightness and Weight_

Sequel to _The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair_

_Lightness and Weight_

Part Two of the _Unbearable Lightness_ Series

Sequel to _The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair _

**A/N: Make sure that you read **_**The Unbearable Lightness**_** before this story, which commences two months after the conclusion of the previous tale. **

**Chapter One:**** The Tree of Life**

_Sometimes I dream of a tree, and the tree is my life._

_One branch is the man I shall marry, and leaves my children._

_Another branch is my future as a writer and each leaf is a poem._

_Another branch is a glittering academic career._

_But as I sit there trying to choose,_

_The leaves begin to turn brown and blow away_

_Until the tree is absolutely bare._

- "The Tree of Life", Sylvia Plath.

It was a prickling hot day at the end of summer, and not for the first time, Chuck Bass wondered why he had entertained the idea of throwing a party for his friends and family in the first house he had ever owned.

Of course, owning the most majestic house in the Hamptons came with certain responsibilities. For thirty years before Mrs Wincester's death and Chuck's purchase of "Barbiston", the final days of summer had been marked by a sumptuous party on these grounds. It had, in fact, been at one of these parties that Chuck had first imagined Blair Waldorf as the mistress of the house. Even now, long after the conversations he'd had with Blair about why she refused under any circumstances to allow him to give her the house as a gift, he felt a queer swoop of disappointment at the rejection. He understood it, of course; and it made him love her a little more when he understood her reasons. But even now, there was a sting accompanying the memory. After all, she was the reason he had purchased this place.

On the day that Chuck and Blair had returned from their two-month spirit quest, he had walked down the sweeping front yard of the estate and replaced the iron lettering with a more fitting title: Innisfree.

He had once told Blair that Innisfree represented what she was to him – a space of such purity and beauty that a man might weep at the sight of it. Of course, in reality, the entire enterprise was turning out to be the world's biggest headache.

"It's not too late to just call the whole thing off and go skinny dipping," Chuck commented as he pulled a sheet over his naked form and surveyed the dawning day from the door of the pool-house he and Blair had taken to sleeping him in the course of the week they had spent in the Hamptons.

"Nothing's to stop you from skinny dipping in front of our guests," Blair commented.

Chuck snorted, inhaling the scent of jasmines that seemed to emerge from every corner of the house. He knew that for the last five days, since he and Blair had landed from a two-month tour of…well, everywhere…Blair had been living and breathing the party that they would be throwing that evening. No matter how nonchalant she might act, it was important to her: a sort of coming out party – telling all of their Upper East Side friends and enemies that they had survived the summer break and were once more ready to assume their office at the very tip of the New York hierarchy.

The sky was a dim blue at this point, which would turn to cobalt as the day progressed. At this peaceful point of morning, the day was no more than potential. Chuck had taken to enjoying moments such as these; somewhere over the course of the summer. He had taken to trying new things.

It had been a thrilling and heartbreaking summer, full of discovery and tiny epiphanies, that Chuck was fearful to see the end of it. Not to mention that any day now, the call of New York and their futures would be too strong to resist.

With a heavy sigh, Chuck ran his hand down Blair's bare back. Every time he thought about the inevitable separation that college would bring, he felt a forbidding swoop of trepidation, followed by a possessive neediness. He cloaked this possessiveness with his usual sexual advances, hoping that the feeling of his skin against hers would blind Blair to the undercurrent of terror that coloured his gestures. Of course, if he was honest with himself, he knew that she was just as terrified as he was. And so, her mania about this party; perhaps, if the party was perfect, then the trials and tribulations of the coming months would be less acute.

Blair Waldorf – how hopeful her grand dreams were.

As if she could tell what he was thinking, she rolled onto her back to see his face more clearly.

"I had a dream last night," she said dreamily, tracing his bicep with her finger. "About a grand table…"

"And we were naked," Chuck contributed, only half joking as her slightly scarred leg wrapped around his.

"All our friends and family were sitting at the table," Blair continued, ignoring him. "We were laughing and talking. And it seemed as if a single meal could last forever."

"What happened next?"

Blair shrugged, suddenly sober and thoughtful. "Next, I woke up."

Chuck turned to look at her, her arm flung wide over the pillow, her free hand caressing his bare chest. If only they could be this way, always. If only the family and friends who even now prepared to drink the wine Blair had painstakingly ordered and eat the food that the kitchen staff had been preparing for days, would leave them be so that each day could be one endless smell of jasmine enjoyed in a pool house.

He was so fearful these days. The more perfect their time together, the more he anticipated its imminent loss. And yet somehow, the more heavily he sighed and the lower the dark clouds, the lighter Blair seemed. It must have been part of their cosmic balancing act: when he was heavy, she danced and near took flight.

Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, even though he could see them slowly awaken to the tasks that the morning would bring. For a moment, he fancied he could freeze this moment and live it again a hundred times before he departed for Princeton and before she entered the gates of Yale.

"What are you thinking about?" Chuck asked, suddenly desperate for reassurance, needing to know that she hadn't, in the course of the night, become a stranger.

She considered his question; it had become a game for them over the course of their travels. "I'm thinking about what Lily would say after two months of not seeing you, if you went skinny dipping in front of her."

"Lily is crazy about me," Chuck said matter-of-factly, surprising himself with the ease of the sentiment. "She will just be relieved that no bandits carried me off in the Far East."

Blair rolled her eyes. "I would feel more sorry for the bandits."

"Please. They'd be lucky to have me. I could be in their merry band."

"You realize that the international slave trade in no way resembles a scene from the _Pirates of Penzance, _right?"

Chuck shrugged non-commitally, suddenly losing interest in their easy banter, more interested suddenly in the sight of her stretching. "Is this what it was like – when you imagined it?"

"It was only one time," Blair blushed.

"Tell me," Chuck breathed.

She pulled back, as if needing a space of privacy before divulging the fantasy that she'd had of them in this very house. She ran her hand over the gap between their bodies, as if it were a part of him. "It was no more than a moment, I suppose. We were sitting next to that pool talking about…well, nothing really. And you're hand was touching mine – you probably don't even remember."

"Please," Chuck scoffed. "It took about half a bottle of gin to get up the courage to touch your hand. I remember."

Blair inched closer to him, the need for space forgotten. "I imagined that you would lean over and kiss me. And from the moment of that first contact, there was no going back. You basically threw me over your shoulder and had your way with me, right here in the pool house."

"Take away the pool house and add in the limo, and that's pretty much how it happened," Chuck commented.

Blair smiled one of those tantalising, secret smiles that left him near-crazy wondering what was going on behind her dark eyes. "Just imagining it…it was so real. It was almost as if we had done something untoward; I slunk back to that party as if I had just fucked you."

Chuck felt a strange thrill at her words; there was something so erotic about her use of the crass language of profanity, especially in the white purity of the house. There was something primal about it; knowing that she had desired him so ardently in this house. Perhaps he was taken away by the smell of jasmine, or the impending fear of separation. For whatever reason, the party plans lay forgotten just outside the door they had kept open all night. In that moment, all Chuck could think about was pressing his skin against hers and making those daydreams of days passed into a reality.

"I stayed away form that party, because I was certain that if I went back, everyone would know how badly I wanted to fuck you," Chuck breathed into her neck, settling himself above her.

"Show me," she whispered. "Show me how much you wanted me."

And so he did.

* * *

When Serena came upon them, she didn't call attention to herself immediately, preferring instead to stand in the pooling darkness and view her old friends without their knowledge.

They were unpacking large boxes, filled to the brim with books of every shape and size, as the afternoon sunlight lapped at their ankles. On her way into the house, Serena had seen that the party preparations were complete (Blair seemed to have outdone herself, lining the garden path with old lamps of various sizes instead of the usual fairy lights that Mrs. Wincester had used). And so it seemed that the couple had decided to dedicate their final hours before the guests descended upon them to sorting, and alphabetising their combined book collection.

At least, Blair was sorting and alphabetising. It seemed that Chuck was content merely to lazily extricate a particular tome and read aloud to Blair as she grumbled, rolled her eyes, and pretended not to be thrilled to just be in his presence. Serena knew that while Chuck was the very picture of idleness, Blair was the most finicky and exacting person that Serena had ever met. To watch them work in consort was quite something.

Serena knew that at any moment the spell would be broken and they would know that both of Chuck's adopted siblings had arrived in the house, and that the luxurious silence of its still bare walls would be undone in the course of one afternoon and evening. But for the moment, Blair frowned at the various titles and referred to the papers she had drawn up.

"_The Witches of Eastwick?_" Chuck drawled. "Why not just put my _Playboy_ collection on the shelves?"

"It's a book about powerful and cruel women, whose urgings turn their husbands to dust," Blair commented, with a grin. "It was a gift from my mother."

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "So it's Eleanor's autobiography, basically."

"Chuck," Blair said warningly, although Serena knew that a smile was teasing the edges of her stern expression.

With his strange, cat-like grace, Chuck manoeuvred himself so that she was sitting in the V formed by his legs. Wrapping his arms around her, smirking to himself when her body bent towards him instinctively, he opened the book to a random page. Blair was sitting with her knees drawn up towards her chin, and Serena could have sworn that she saw a faint shiver pass over Blair's body when Chuck came upon her.

"'_Jenny, the backs of my thighs,' Sookie begged. "Just slowly along the backs, incredibly slowly. And use your fingernails. Don't be afraid of the insides of the thighs. The backs of the knees are wonderful,"_ Chuck paused for effect, "_wonderful. Oh my God.' Her thumb slid into her mouth._"

As he spoke, he rand his fingers along her legs, as if this Sookie-character were instructing him. Blair's eyes slid shut, and Serena saw that her eyelids were vaguely translucent – they must have been doing this all week, Serena realized. Even now, after months together, it seemed that Chuck and Blair, quite simply, could not keep their hands off each other.

"You know," Chuck murmured into the shell of Blair's ear. "I'm starting to reconsider Updike. I think I'll keep this right next to our bed."

"Truth be told," Blair said breathlessly, as Chuck's finger ran along the backs of her thighs. "I haven't even read the thing."

"We'll read it together," he whispered.

For a moment, Serena almost smiled at that, until she noticed that Chuck's hands were straying, and that if she didn't draw attention to herself shortly, she would be privy to a very embarrassing and very personal display between the pair of them.

"Don't tell me that Chuck still needs help sounding out the big words," Serena said in a loud voice that sounded false even to her own ears.

Although Blair jumped and pulled Chuck's hands from her skin, Serena noticed that Chuck did no more than cast a mildly irritated look in her direction. It was impossible to catch him off-guard – that was something that Serena had always hated about Chuck. Of course, she had no time to ponder her elusive adoptive-brother, because within a few moments, her arms were brimming with a very excitable Blair, enjoying one of those rare instances when Blair didn't measure her responses, when she was just thrilled to have her friends gathered around her.

"You should go help Eric with his bags," Serena said over her shoulder as Blair dragged her from the room to show her around the house.

Chuck shot her a look that said very clearly that he had no intention of his beloved brother with something as menial as carrying bags, but seeing that Serena and Blair would soon be ensconced in the wardrobe Chuck had had built for Blair's benefit, he figured that now was as good a time as any to seek out his younger brother.

"I can't believe that Chuck brought this house for you," Serena murmured as they crossed over into the master bedroom.

"Well," Blair said stiffly. "I didn't accept. It's his house."

Serena looked at the enormous bed, feeling strangely embarrassed at the sight of its four-posters. It seemed so thoroughly grown-up, and for the life of her, she didn't feel old enough to have a friend who slept with her boyfriend in such a bed. She couldn't quite stomach the notion that Chuck and Blair were so settled into their relationship, when she, Serena, felt so very young in comparison. Watching Blair as she confidently navigated through the room, Serena was overcome with the alien feeling that she was a little girl knocking on the door of one of her mother's friends.

Although she knew that the house Chuck had brought was unofficially Blair's as well, it was strange to imagine her best friend as someone mature enough to be mistress of such a beautiful house.

It was clearly Blair's house as well; Serena could easily see the influence of Blair's taste on every corner of the place. And yet, there was something alien vying for dominance – an aesthetic that was somehow dangerous and foreign, something Serena didn't recognise.

It was Chuck's taste, Serena realized, staring at the tall oriental screen that stood proudly in the corner of the room. There was something so essentially Chuck about the piece – creating a dark space in the corner of a large and sunlit room. Surely Chuck must have chosen that red monkey cage as well.

There was something strangely moving about the knowledge that Blair had urged him to choose his own furniture: it was a pressing concern for Blair, Serena knew, her sense that Chuck never wanted to impact upon the physical spaces he inhabited, that he never wanted to grow roots. And for a moment, Serena was overcome with affection for her oldest friend and the way in which she loved someone as impossible as Chuck Bass.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I don't know," Serena said honestly, "I'm just so…proud of you. You're so amazing, B."

"You know I'm taken, right?" she quipped.

Serena threw a pillow in her direction, before collapsing onto the huge bed. "It's just so strange to see you so domestic. And with _Chuck_."

"You know you say his name like it's some kind of insult."

"If the shoe fits," Serena muttered, patting the bed next to her.

But when Blair sat down, she didn't lie down the way she used to, but rather sat primly on the edge of the bed. Serena swallowed the slight disappointment she felt when she realized that Blair would not be play-acting their childhood with her today. In fact, after a few moments, Blair stood up again and disappeared into the closet to pull on a series of dresses for Serena's opinion.

"It's perfect," Serena said, nodding in approval at Blair's latest ensemble.

"Please," Blair frowned. "I look like potpourri."

"Hot potpourri," Serena retorted.

Blair stared at herself in the mirror. "I can't believe that two weeks ago I was in a nightclub in Shanghai with a highly-placed diplomat and an arms dealer, and today I look like a massive pot of dried flowers."

"It must be strange being back."

It had been a joke between Blair and Chuck, that Blair leave without informing Serena that she was leaving the country. A sort of payback for those times that Serena had picked up as if life weighed nothing and set out on a journey without telling her best friend where she was going and when she would be back.

At first it had been a joke, but soon enough, as the trip became the most exhilarating two months of Blair's life, it became too difficult to summarize, too complex to type in an email. To even begin to describe life on the road with Chuck would have take hours, and at the time, Blair was so taken away with the desire to live-live-live, that the thought of any sort of self-reflection seemed a dreadful waste.

So Serena lay, sprawled on her bed, positively itching with curiosity about where they had gone, what they had agreed about this year, what had happened. And once more, Blair found herself lost for words.

"I want to look nice tonight," she said suddenly, ignoring Serena's comment. "I want to look nice for Chuck."

"After travelling with him, I would imagine any mystery that you guys still had has disappeared," Serena commented.

Blair seemed lost in her mind for a moment. "I don't know," she commented, her eyes distant. "He can be so…Chuck."

"Well, he _is_ Chuck Bass."

"I know," Blair said, with only a hint of a grin. "It's just he can be so different from other people. Sometimes he seems so far away. And I worry that I don't know him well enough. I don't know where he goes in those moments."

"You know him better than anyone," Serena protested. "I mean people always say that…but I mean, with you and Chuck it's true. No one knows him like you do."

"But the closer I get to him, the more I see that I'm never going to get to the bottom of him." Blair stared at Serena through one of the full-length mirrors. "You know, I saw it – when we were away. I saw it."

"Saw what?"

"Just flashes of it, really," Blair said dreamily. "There would be these fleeting moments when I would see from the corner of my eye how he might be one day – he'd be doing something completely every day. He'd be talking to someone, or just standing and staring at something. And I'd see it. This…remoteness in him."

Serena knew what she meant; sometimes the power just seemed to emanate from him. There were moments when he was entirely in the scene, the glowing centre of attention, and then there were moments when he seemed to spiral off to some great height, and be something different entirely. "And what would you do when you saw it?"

"I'd pull him back. He seemed so solemn at those moments - "

"Doesn't sound like Chuck," Serena interrupted.

"But that's the thing," Blair said, chewing her bottom lip. "It _is _Chuck. It is what Chuck was born for – it's what Bart intended for him when he was born. And I could _see _it. I could see him becoming someone so great." Serena cocked her head to the side, taking in the sight of Blair's fierce, proud and terrified face. "And I thought – what role do I have in that future?"

"Blair – "

Blair gestured dismissively. "No, I mean…who knows? But I just had this strange feeling that I might be holding him back."

"Please," Serena scoffed. "If anything, you're the only reason that future is even a possibility."

"Maybe now. But in the future…I don't know. It's too much isn't it – the significance of a life. The decisions you make in a lifetime. It's just…it's too much. And to think that I was leading him away form some destiny - "

"What's going on with you today?" Serena smiled nervously. "You know Chuck. You think he'd stay a moment more than he had to if he thought you were holding him back? He loves you."

"You're right," Blair said in a too-bright voice. "You're right. I'm just…nervous about the party. And I need to find an outfit that doesn't make me look like decorative foliage."

"Well then," Serena said, equally falsely. "To the closet."

* * *

"Honestly Chuck," Eric complained. "It's no big deal."

"He _punched_ you," Chuck repeated for the umpteenth time. "He made a fist and hit you in the face with it?"

"Yes," Eric drawled. "We are using the more popular definition of the word 'punched'."

Chuck took a deep breath, one that could have been mistaken for a calming breath, had Eric not been convinced that at any second, his insane brother might go out and commit murder.

"I don't understand how this happened," Chuck said in a dangerously low voice.

Eric exhaled through his teeth, instantly regretting confiding in him. Perhaps he should have just told Chuck what he told Lily: that he had accidentally walked into a pole while walking and reading. But of course, Chuck would never believe a story so lame. And there was a strange quality in Chuck that seemed to draw out the truth. Eric found it impossible to lie to him.

So, when he had entered the grounds of Innisfree, sporting a brand new black eye, it seemed inevitable that Chuck would learn the truth.

Even now, Eric wasn't quite sure how to understand what had happened. It had been such an alien and shocking moment, when the boy he had attempted to chat up at a party had suddenly turned around and punched him in the face, decrying Eric's lifestyle and swearing to high heaven that he "was not a fag, man." Even after being on the receiving end of a sucker-punch, and falling to the ground, Eric had found the poise to offer the boy a Chuck Bass-inspired smirk.

"And yet you punch like a girl."

That had not gone over particularly well. It was lucky that Lily had been so preoccupied with Rufus Humphrey; if she had taken a second to look closely at her son, she might have noticed the way he winced when he sat down.

It had been a low point of what had been an altogether frustrating summer. Without Chuck in the house, Eric had found himself spending extended periods of time with Nate and Serena. Although he loved Nate – especially the sight of Nate scantily clad at the breakfast table – he had begun to find the boy's wide-eyed innocence a touch trying. With Chuck off gallivanting around the earth, Eric had found that he was playing Chuck's role of the acerbic commentator. Serena had called him on it again and again, until eventually Eric had snapped at her (something rare for him).

"Well if you were as good a sister as he is brother, maybe I'd imitate you."

He could remember so exactly the look on Serena's face: hurt chased by guilt. And it was in that moment that Eric knew he was not cut out to be Chuck Bass; he couldn't free himself of the guilt that came with hurting Serena. For the last few weeks, she had been distant with him, so that Eric found himself alone for the most part.

"Can we try not to make a big deal out of this?" Eric asked.

"Can we try not to make a big deal out of this," Chuck repeated incredulously.

"Jinx?" Eric said weakly.

"What's his name?" Chuck said flatly, ignoring Eric's attempt at a joke.

"Chuck - "

"Give me a name," Chuck barked.

"No, because I won't let you hire a hit-man because I got the stuffing beaten out of me by some homophobic sophomore."

"Fine," Chuck said, crossing his arms across his chest. "I'll call my P.I. and have him find out the name for me."

"I don't need you to fight my battles for me," Eric snapped, speaking louder than he had intended.

Chuck paused from dialling. Unlike Serena, he gave no outward sign of offence at Eric's tone, but merely settled him with an irritatingly impassive look, waiting for him to explain himself.

"I mean," Eric continued in a softer tone. "Is that how it's always going to be? Every time some closed-minded prick gives me trouble, you're going to leap in with guns blazing?"

"It sounds like a fairly well-formed plan from where I'm standing," Chuck shrugged.

"Well I don't want it. I don't want to talk to you about this."

For a moment, Chuck seemed to teeter between listening to Eric's request and dialling his P.I.'s phone number. But, setting his eyes on the stern look on Eric's face, taking note of the dark circles under the boy's eyes and the grim set of his mouth, Chuck thought better of it. Slipping his phone into his jacket pocket, Chuck leant against the wall with almost theatrical nonchalance.

"So," he dead-panned. "What do you want to talk about."

Eric shrugged. "How's Blair?"

The play of emotions that crossed Chuck's face at the question almost stole the breath from Eric's lungs; he had forgotten quite what it looked like, this intensity that coloured Chuck and Blair's relationship. And now it hit him full force, the joy, terror and redemption that characterised even their every act. But, something was different – Eric saw it immediately. Over the course of their vacation, the already all-consuming relationship had adopted a new hue: it was more private, more intense. And Eric could have been knocked over by the force of it.

"She's good," he said simply.

* * *

"Another letter from Vanessa?" Jenny asked, in a half-sympathetic, half-teasing voice.

"She's nothing if not consistent," Dan acknowledged, folding the letter in his lap as the limousine cruised down the main road of East Hampton. "Consistent, and you know…flighty."

Jenny gestured non-commitally before staring out the tinted glass of the window. Dan took a moment to consider her, a metre away in this luxurious car. Apart from those natural changes that had taken place over the course of summer with Rufus and Lily finally committing to becoming whatever the grown-up version of a couple was, Jenny seemed to have changed more than anyone. Her legs were crossed, almost demurely, although her outfit was yet another blood-pressure rising ensemble that Dan both hated and admire. Hated, because he would have to give a stern talking to any man who glanced in her direction. Admired, because there was something so essentially "Jenny" about her way of dressing that made him jealous of this strange sense of self she had developed somewhere along the course of the tempestuous school year they had passed.

Dan folded and re-folded the note that Vanessa had sent him. It was a typically long-winded and emotional thing, which did nothing to dampen the sting he still felt when he considered the ease with which she had packed up and left town. Intellectually, he understood this need of hers to grow, to define herself without the safety net of the Humphrey family. But a part of him wished that she hadn't had to go on a whirlwind tour of the fifty states, armed only with her camcorder, in order to do so. He had imagined, when he had finally surrendered to those hidden feelings for his best friend, that they would have, at least, the entire summer to explore their relationship. But, sometime during the week that followed Chuck and Blair's sudden, if not unexpected, departure, she had become withdrawn, preoccupied with a strange sense that to be in the same place was to be trapped.

"I just need time," she had said, her eyes distant even as her hand was entwined with his.

"Time away from me," he'd responded petulantly.

She had settled one of those clear-eyed, thoughtful looks of hers on his face and he had hated the swoop of breathless affection he felt at the sight. He had fallen for her after she had fallen for him, but he couldn't shake the impression he had that he had fallen harder for her than she had. She was used to loving Dan Humphrey. This was new terrain for him. And to be faced, so soon, with this abandonment was more than he could stand.

"I suppose," she'd said, in her painfully honest way. "But more, time with myself."

"Can't you be yourself with me?"

"When I'm with you, I don't even think about myself."

There was little he could say to that. And so, he had given her his unwilling, stony-faced blessing, walking with her to the Greyhound bus that would take her from him. A part of him had hated her, embarking upon an adventure that could never include him. He had not said goodbye properly. He had grunted at her, unwilling to be emotionally available. There had been nothing cinematic about their farewell, and he knew she was disappointed. When he had returned to the now empty Humphrey loft, he had sat in front of his computer for hours, waiting for inspiration to come.

The document he had saved that day remained blank. It seemed that Vanessa's need to find herself had left him entirely adrift.

"I wonder what it will be like seeing them again," Jenny pondered, strumming her hands against the leather seat of Lily's limo.

"What do you mean?" Dan asked, fiddling with the knobs on the armrest, wondering how far behind Rufus and Lily were in the MiniCooper Rufus had insisted on driving to the Hamptons. Eric had caught the early bus, keen to enjoy some time alone with Chuck before the big party.

Jenny shrugged, unable to find the words. "You know. I mean…it's been months. And everything's changed. I just wonder if they're still going to be all…you know…star-crossed lover…can't-keep-our-hands-off-each-other Chuck and Blair."

Dan frowned to himself. "It's kind of scary, isn't it? I mean, I'm half scared that I'll wade in hip deep and find that they're just like everyone else. That it was something embarrassing and childish that seems less mystical in the cold light of day"

"What does the other half of you think?"

"The other half?" Dan sighed. "The other half is convinced that they _are_ mystical. And that I will have to live with the knowledge that two of the most undeserving, insufferable people I could have thought of have created something greater than both of them."

"I guess we'll see," Jenny said, and for a moment she seemed far too old for her years.

Dan looked out the window as the roads turned from highway to luxury foot-mall. They were getting closer: and soon enough it would be time to confront the fact that while Chuck and Blair had travelled the world, he had done nothing in particular, apart from wonder where it was he had gone wrong in these interpersonal relationships of his. And, swallow the hurt he had felt at the fact that Chuck and Blair had scarcely contacted him during their whirlwind tour of the known world.

Of course, he knew that he was not the only one; he had taken to speaking to Serena at the family dinners Rufus and Lily insisted that they pass together. She had received only the merest word from Blair: mainly photos for Lily to enjoy. As for Nate, who sat awkwardly to Serena's right at these dinners, Chuck had sent him only the occasional word – probably urged by Blair.

"This is how Chuck is," Nate shrugged, sipping his wine and enjoying the feeling of civility that now characterised his interactions with Dan. "When he leaves a place, he erases any trace of himself."

"But Blair is usually so chatty," Serena fretted. "I mean it used to take me days to read one email from her when she was last in France."

"It's different, though," Dan mused. "She's got Chuck."

"And it's personal," Jenny added. "I mean, when they left, everything was crashing down around them. They needed time to de-compress."

"They needed time to de-compress in the company of Kim-Jong Il?" Serena rolled her eyes. Dan had to concede their points; in the sketchy reports that he had gleaned from _Gossip Girl,_ Chuck and Blair had gone rather out-of-bounds during their journey.

To look at Chuck and Blair, one would have been forgiven for assuming that they were a couple most fitted to the well-worn paths of Europe. And, although there had been the requisite visits to Harold Waldorf and Roman LeClerc's vineyard, as well as various shopping visits to Paris, Blair and Chuck had seemed determined to visit only the most obscure places. They had traversed parts of Mongolia, they had brought silk in Nepal, they placed bids on Egyptian artefacts, and for some reason had been compelled to stare across the sumptuous but mine-filled rainforest of the DMZ that separated North and South Korea.

Dan was envious. As he looked over the low light of summer and the rolling grasslands of the playground of the rich, it occurred to him that he had never been anywhere in particular.

As the car came to a stop in front of the wrought iron gates that now bore the name "Innisfree", Dan took a moment to make sense of the huge white house, with those black shutters and the elegant curve of a willow tree in the front garden. He knew that the block of land must extend far back: Eric had cheerfully informed him that there was a pretty respectable (which Dan assumed meant heart-stopping in Upper-East-Side lingo). In his wildest dreams, Dan knew that he would never be able to afford a house as magnificent as this.

"Let's get this over with," Dan said through gritted teeth, gesturing towards the entrance with a heavy sense of dread.

"Just try and stop me," Jenny chirped, all-but skipping down the driveway.

For a moment, the house might have had eyes; Dan was certain that the house itself was cringing away from his humble roots. It was rare for Dan to have moments like this, where his sense of the injustice of society was so acute that he could scarcely breathe through the injustice of it. For an insane moment, Dan was convinced that the house was full of dark intents; that it's scale was too large for human inhabitants. He almost wanted to grab hold of Jenny's hand and run away from it's threatening magnitude.

Of course, the moment passed, and soon enough, Dan remembered that it was no more than a house. Chuck Bass' house at that.

"Let's get this over with," Dan said glumly, to no one in particular.

* * *

Apart from a laconic smile and a nod of acknowledgement at the entrance to the party, Dan hadn't found a moment to speak to Chuck, and after so long of no contact whatsoever, Dan was not certain how to go about talking to the boy he had been friends with for only a season.

And so Dan adopted the pose that he was most comfortable with: as an observer.

It had only been a few months since he had last seen Chuck and Blair, and the way they held each other's gazes during Blair's Graduation speech:

"_So I want to take this opportunity to thank you for helping me become something substantial. And I want to assure you that no matter how far the distance between us, no matter how difficult the road that lies before us becomes, nothing will undo you, to me. Not because you've changed me, but because having you collide into my life showed me where my edges were."_

They'd made plans to meet up after Graduation: it was to be a dinner at the Waldorf penthouse, with all of their friends and family in attendance. And yet before they'd even been able to plan the event fully, Chuck and Blair had made some sort of agreement to flee from the city. They hadn't looked back, and for the last few months, apart from the occasional three-line email from Blair, Dan had not heard a word from the secretive couple. He wondered, as he watched the way the couple navigated their way through their guests either separately or as a unit, whether they had fully prepared themselves for college.

The cynic in Dan, who had been awakened with Vanessa's unexpected desertion, smirked knowingly as Chuck went through the motions of listening to Nate's story, while his eyes devoured Blair in her purple summer dress with the intricate necklace Dan assumed Chuck himself had put around her neck.

It was easier to think of them as separate entities: the Chuck and Blair he knew as two of the most selfish, devious figures he had ever met and then the two people who were capable of such towering feats of love. They were irreconcilable; they contradicted everything Dan had assumed about love. How was it possible to never be open to anyone, and yet to find yourself entirely consumed by another person? How was it possible to be so mean with your sentiments, and yet to be a conduit for the most life-altering relationship Dan had witnessed.

It was unfair, really. And Dan didn't know how it was possible that everyone else didn't shout aloud with the injustice of it. In his unkind moments, Dan assumed that it was because they lacked the faculty to truly understand the dynamic between Chuck and Blair. Serena couldn't grasp it – Nate certainly couldn't. Perhaps Vanessa had been the only one among them to truly understand how lean any other sentiment appeared in comparison to Chuck and Blair's relationship.

Dan found himself frowning malevolently.

"What's the matter, Humphrey?" a voice asked from behind him. "Do you need a decongestant?"

He had no idea how Chuck had managed to sneak up on him. At most he had looked away for a moment. That was all it took for Chuck to claim the upper hand. Dan didn't know why he felt so hostile towards the boy he had come to view as a close friend – at least, he had before Chuck had unceremoniously disappeared from his life altogether. Was it possible that Dan was a little bit hurt?

Definitely, Dan realized, embarrassed.

"I was just trying to calculate the combined age of the guests at this party," Dan said sarcastically.

Chuck cast a laconic eye at the crowd, which was, truth be told, largely populated by the very same guests Mrs. Wincester had invited. "I'd say if we added them together we'd get the exact year that dinosaurs walked the earth."

"You really know how to party."

"It was important to Blair," Chuck said, casting a curious look in Dan's direction. He was toying with a small package, that seemed to sit ill in his hands. He couldn't hold it still.

"You brought her a house," Dan said, a little unkindly. "What else does she want?"

There may have been the slightest hint of hurt still left in Dan's voice as he attempted the nonchalant cruelty that came so easily to Chuck. He had no doubt that someone as perceptive as Chuck would have noticed it – and he half expected Chuck to make some kind of derisive comment. _Sorry Humphrey – did you think we were going steady?_

Although Chuck's face registered some surprise at Dan's uncharacteristic cruelty, a look of guilt seemed to pass across it. Dan realized with a sense of relief that he hadn't dreamed the friendship he had gained with Chuck; Chuck's face told Dan that he was not only aware that he had been a bad friend, but that he was actually (and this surprised Dan deeply) sorry about it.

"I brought you a gift," Chuck said stiffly.

With a stiff awkwardness that looked strange on Chuck's usually so cat-like frame, he shoved his hand out to offer a hastily wrapped package. Dan sensed that the boy couldn't wait to be rid of it - that he found the whole process of buying a gift for a friend while overseas completely distasteful. He all but threw the package at Dan.

Sensing the burning embarrassment that Chuck would never admit to, Dan took the package casually, careful not to express too much gratitude or surprise. He could tell that Chuck was looking for the exits, seriously considering making a break for it. Not for the first time, Dan wondered what it had been like for Chuck growing up – how he had developed this intense phobia of emotional scenes. Happy to have something to keep him busy, Dan unwrapped the package, to expose the most delicately carved statue that Dan had ever seen. He held it up to the dim lights that illuminated the garden of the house.

It was clearly an Egyptian statue: and Dan didn't have to know much about the history of Egypt to know it was ridiculously valuable.

"It's Thoth," Chuck said flatly. "We thought of you when we saw it at this auction we went to. He's the god of moon, magic and writing – you know, basically an insufferable wanker. So of course we thought of you." He finished in a rush. "There's a certificate of authenticity inside, in case you want to sell it for food when you're a penniless author."

It was an outrageously generous gift accompanied by a mildly insulting explanation. In short – it was the Chuck, down to the finest detail. Dan noticed, while processing his awe at the demure colours that lined the headdress of the statue, the matter-of-fact way Chuck described himself and Blair as _"we_". Although he had heard other couples do the same thing, had even done it himself with Serena, Dan was struck by how closely fused they were – how the "we" on Chuck's lips made him think of them as a single entity.

He knew that he shouldn't accept such an expensive gift; he knew that his father would insist that it was too much. But he also knew that it would be unbearable to hand it back to Chuck. Not only because it was the most beautiful thing he had seen up close, but also because he knew that Chuck would never be able to countenance even a well-meaning rejection. So, with a sense of reverence, Dan placed the statue in his pocket and offered Chuck a quick smile.

"Thank you," Dan said simply.

"No problem," Chuck said quickly, relieved that the ordeal was over. "There was, uh…something I wanted to ask you.

And here came the inevitable catch, Dan mused wryly. "You want my advice on how to dress?" he asked raising an eyebrow at Chuck's typically over-the-top outfit.

"I think I could get all of your fashion advice from the hobo that lives on your street in Brooklyn," Chuck responded, gesturing at the waiter to hand over a scotch for both of them. Dan sniffed the amber liquid doubtfully. He was more of a cheap beer man, himself, but he hated to give the guests in attendance an excuse to look down on him.

"So what is it?" Dan asked, noticing that Chuck had lost his train of thought, staring at Blair and Nate talking to each other under the willow tree, while Serena danced with Cyrus, Blair's gnome-like step-father.

"I always thought it would be them, you know," Chuck said absently, watching as Blair laughed at Nate's expression.

"What – Nate and Blair?" Dan asked, choking slightly on the burn of the scotch.

"In this house. Together. I thought I'd buy it for them one day. And…stay with them in summers."

"Well," Dan said, trying to lighten his mood. "Looks like you were wrong. Turns out to be you and Blair playing house." He smirked at Chuck. "And here I thought you were more into playing doctor."

"I guess so," Chuck shrugged. "Although it's not really both of us is it? She won't let me put her name on anything to do with the place."

"So that was you who decorated the bathroom with all the vanilla candles?" Dan asked wryly.

"Okay," Chuck admitted with the hint of a smile. "She loves decorating it."

"What's this about, Chuck? I mean, I got the impression that you understood where Blair was coming from with this whole house thing. I mean, she doesn't want you to think she's sticking around just because she enjoys having a summer residence. She wanted you to make yourself something substantial: to have a reason to stay."

Chuck gestured dismissively. It seemed that the dance-partners were being rearranged once more, as Cyrus held out a hand for his step-daughter to dance with him, and Serena pulled a rhythmically challenged Nate onto the floor. Despite Dan's cruel joke about the age of the guests, it was plain to see that everyone was enjoying themselves. Lily and Rufus had yet to let go of each other, rotating on the large gazebo that was covered in jasmine. Dan almost smiled to himself at the sight of the majestic old gramophone and the old-style records that provided the musical accompaniment.

The mood would be spoilt soon, though; he had noticed that a few of Nate's buddies from school had already begun fooling around with the mixing deck that one of them had brought for Chuck as a housewarming gift (although what possible use Chuck would have for mixing music eluded Dan – he imagined that the boys merely wanted to have access to it in the off chance that Chuck allowed them to stay in the house for spring break). Soon enough, the older guests would leave and the party would become a place for the after-hour enjoyment of the young. Dan had already seen Eleanor Waldorf, who had been in a remarkably quiet mood, excuse herself.

"I want you to keep an eye on her," Chuck said suddenly, shaking Dan from his reverie.

"Who? Blair?"

Chuck nodded to himself, watching Blair kiss Cyrus on the cheek. "At Yale. I want you to keep an eye on her."

A small, defiant part of him was angry; what right did that spoilt dilettante have to order him around? What right did Chuck have to make things sound so vitally important in that husky drawl of his? What made his relationship with Blair any different to Dan's relationship with Serena, or Vanessa? Why should he and Blair be immune from the power of distance to sever bonds?

"I'm not going to spy on her."

"It's not spying if you're concerned about someone," Chuck said stubbornly.

"Actually…it sort of is," Dan said, downing the rest of his drink. "Don't you think you're taking this controlling boyfriend thing a little far? Maybe giving Blair a bit of air to breathe wouldn't be such a crazy thing. She's hardly the flighty type. You don't have to worry about that. If that's what you're worried about. Because you shouldn't be."

Why was it that conversations with Chuck Bass always led to him sounding like he had been hit over the head with a cartoon dumbbell?

"I have the Skulls and Bones douchebags to make sure that none of the guys hit on her," Chuck said with a note of desperation. "That's not what I need. I can't be there everyday to see her face – to check whether her eyes match her mouth – I just…I can't be there - and I need someone who _can_ be there every day to make sure that she's…that she's okay. Someone who knows her to tell me that she's still…"

Dan's voice was softer, now, moved by the desperation in Chuck's voice, by his choppy sentences. "Still?"

"Still Blair," he said simply.

For a moment, Dan wanted to say something cruel to Chuck, about how they were too young to speak in this way: as if Blair's entire identity depended upon her proximity to Chuck. He might have said so, too, had Blair not chosen that exact moment to walk towards them.

Chuck stiffened at the sight of her, skin turned rose quartz in the dim lighting. It was probably the last song before Justice's D.A.N.C.E. became the dominant sound. And for the time being, Tuck and Patti's "Mad Mad Me" filled the garden with tones of deep, velvety romance. Dan heard Chuck exhale heavily as Blair came within reach, placing his hands around her waist.

"Hey Humphrey," Blair said, smiling at him and tugging at her hair as it curled around her ear.

"Hi Blair," Dan said, finding it suddenly difficult to swallow, as Chuck leant down and kissed Blair on the neck. This close to them, all his uncharitable thoughts seemed pathetic. They were just as magnificent as he remembered. And all the sight of them did was confirm to Dan that there was something terribly lacking in his own life.

"We haven't danced yet, Chuck," Blair said softly.

"And we will remedy that immediately," he said smoothly.

The conversation was over, it seemed, as Chuck led Blair onto the dance-floor. They could have stepped out of the page of one of those books that sat on the shelves of the library Eric had shown him earlier.

Just when Dan thought he may escape without making any sort of deal, Chuck's eyes fell upon him.

_Do we have a deal?_ Chuck mouthed, his arms around Blair as she rested her head on his chest.

"Yes," Dan said softly, nodding – needlessly. "We have a deal."

* * *

The moment the last of the important and older guests departed, the party became rather suddenly and rather surprisingly, completely debauched.

Perhaps it was because Blair had orchestrated the earlier stages so elegantly and exactly, but the entire latter half of the party fell to Chuck. And within minutes, displaying once more his uncanny ability to conjure decadence from nowhere in particular, Chuck had quadrupled the alcohol availability, positioned large couches under the night's sky for their more amorous guests, and even supplied pool tools for the impromptu pool party that had developed somewhere between 11pm and midnight.

"He's a psycho motherfucker," commented one articulate youth as he poured champagne into the pool, causing Penelope to squeal. "But Chuck Bass knows how to party."

Even Blair was taken up in the occasion, kicking off her shoes and dancing in a thoroughly inappropriate manner with Chuck. She had even managed to convince Serena to help her perform the entire dance to "Single Ladies" with Nate performing as the third woman. They performed their perfected dance for Chuck, who sat in a comically large armchair at the edge of the gazebo. The crowd who had gathered quickly dispersed, along with Serena and Nate, when Blair seemed to decide that Chuck deserved a more private show in that very chair.

"I've said it once, and I'll say it again," Nate said mournfully as Blair straddled Chuck. "I miss prudish Blair."

The evening was finally drawing to a close, with people sleeping wherever they landed, anticipating the sumptuous breakfast that Chuck promised them while standing on top of a table, his bow-tie coming undone. And then would come the Recovery Party. Basically, anyone who left the house with liver in tact had simply not tried hard enough.

Chuck had spent the greater part of the evening ensuring that Blair's glass was never empty for more than a moment. This had provoked the delicious promise of amorous activities to follow, and yet, as the clock struck 4a.m., Chuck found himself carrying an unconscious Blair into their bedroom. He kissed her lightly on the forehead, knowing that when morning came, this angelic-moonlit woman would be replaced by a hung-over harpy who would throw every object within arm's reach at his head if he made the slightest noise when waking up.

God he loved his insane she-devil.

But for the life of him, he couldn't seem to sleep that night. Perhaps it was because Blair kept hitting his face with the back of her hand and demanding that he bring her more daiquiri, or perhaps it was the sound of the impromptu rap battle that two of the whitest guys in his year at St Jude's going on under their window. Whatever the reason, he couldn't seem to sleep that night.

Pulling on a robe, and deciding that a cup of tea and the sight of the sun rising might cure his insomnia, Chuck made his way into the dark house, trying to avoid as many unconscious class-mates as possible.

He couldn't help but feel like a stranger in this house: couldn't quite comprehend that the place belonged to him and was not merely a halfway house for the wayward teens he had passed high school with. He didn't even want to consider what it would be like next week, when he and Blair departed for Princeton and Yale respectively. They had come to some tacit agreement not to speak of it.

Chuck knew that if he went via the servant's quarters (yes, the house was old enough to have a wing for the servants), he might be able to avoid the twenty-odd people who had decided to sleep there, apart from the guests he had actually invited: Serena and Nate for a start, as Dan seemed to prefer to stay in CeCe's house with Lily and Rufus. Probably provoked by the lingering awkwardness of seeing Serena and Nate together without Vanessa at his side.

Chuck's mind was elsewhere, so he didn't quite notice that the light in the bathroom was switched on when he walked in. It took another moment to register that Eleanor Waldorf was standing in front of the large mirror – topless.

Now, Chuck Bass had seen many a topless woman, but never before had he accidentally walked into his girlfriend's _mother_ in a state of dishabille.

Their eyes met in the mirror.

"Charles - " Eleanor exclaimed, sharply before pressing her shirt up to her chest.

"I'm terribly sorry," Chuck said, feeling a strange heat emanating from his cheeks. It was only by looking in the mirror that he realized he was actually _blushing_. Turning away with red cheeks, Chuck struggled with the door, his hands shaking with embarrassment.

"Charles – wait," Eleanor said in a shaky voice.

Chuck stared blankly at the wall in front of him, his back facing Eleanor. Now seemed like as good a time as any for an asteroid to hit the earth and obliterate all living things. This interlude was just what his already difficult relationship with Eleanor needed: more awkwardness.

"I need you to help me with something," Eleanor said – still using that unfamiliar voice that made Chuck so deeply uncomfortable. It was not her usual imperious tone. It was something small and delicate. And Chuck had never understood small and delicate creatures.

Turning around, eyes studiously examining the space behind Eleanor's shoulder (although she still had the shirt pressed to her bare chest.

"I need you to feel this," she said flatly, avoiding his eyes as he avoided hers.

It took a moment to register that Eleanor was pointing to a point on the side of her right breast: nearer her armpit than anything else. Chuck forgot about his policy of avoiding her eyes for a moment, a chill passing over him. Was it possible that Blair's mother was…hitting on him?

"Eleanor," Chuck said stiffly, crossing his arms to make some kind of barrier between himself and this crazy woman who stood in his bathroom half-undressed. "You're a very attractive woman, but I'm afraid that I am completely in love with your daughter.

"I'm not hitting on you, you complete dunce," Eleanor snapped, regaining some of her old imperiousness.

Chuck frowned. "Then I'm not sure that I really follow…"

Rolling her eyes, and giving him that look of hers which told him that she thought him completely and utterly idiotic, she grabbed his hand and pressed it to the place she had pointed to earlier. He was so shocked that for a moment he couldn't speak at all.

That was the reason it took a moment for him to feel it: the strange lump under the surface of the skin.

For a moment, all Chuck was aware of was the darkness of the world outside the window. _It is always darkest before dawn_. He remembered reading that somewhere. Judging by the still silence of the house, everyone else had surrendered to slumber. Two floors above them, Blair slept in her bed, completely unaware that in a forgotten bathroom of Chuck's house, her mother and her boyfriend were exchanging a terrified look.

"It's a lump," Chuck said softly, understanding now.

Eleanor pulled away, pulling the shirt on and ending the moment of pure and honest fear that they had just shared. Chuck knew what this was; he himself had just this reaction to events that were too threatening to process.

"Eleanor," Chuck said, slightly louder. "What - "

"So I didn't dream it after all," Eleanor said flatly, running her fingers through her hair.

"It's been there for a while?" Chuck asked, feeling another wave of panic.

Eleanor shot him a look, still regarding herself in the mirror. "You will tell no one."

"Eleanor, this is serious – we have to take you to the doctor. This isn't going to go away just because we don't talk about it."

"Do not condescend to me, Charles," Eleanor snapped. "I will see to a doctor. For the time being you just focus on keeping your mouth shut."

Chuck wished that he had chosen a different bathroom – wished that he had taken a different route to the kitchen. He had noticed Eleanor retire early from the party. He had noticed how pinched her face was during the course of the evening. He knew that if he had not run into her that night, this stubborn and implacable woman would never had involved him in this entire ordeal. He had walked into a life-changing scene. And for the first time in quite a while, Chuck wondered what else he and Blair had missed during their travels. He realized that even though they had stepped out of their lives, the lives of those they cared about had continued at their usual pace. For some reason, the sight of Eric's bruised eye came to mind.

"I won't lie to Blair," Chuck said flatly.

"So you'd rather hurt her?" Eleanor said sharply, her eyes flashing. "I'm going to the doctor next week. There might be nothing to tell. I for one would rather have all the facts before I worry Cyrus and Blair."

"I'm coming," Chuck said finally, his chin jutted out defiantly. "I'll take you – to the doctor. I'm coming."

She snorted. "And why would you do that?"

"Because I'm in love with your daughter," Chuck said simply. "And I'm the only person in your life who won't feel sorry for you."

"You don't feel sorry for me?"

Chuck shrugged and then flashed a slight smile. "Not as sorry as I feel for any doctor who tries to treat you."

"Alright then," Eleanor said, as if bestowing a great favour upon him.

"I'll just…leave you then."

Chuck never did make it to the kitchen; the moment he left the bathroom, he hurried back upstairs, feeling the pressing need to hold Blair in his arms.

As he climbed into the bed they had chosen together, he couldn't muster a smile when she immediately adjusted her sleeping body to meet his. For a long time, he stared at the ceiling, watching as the morning light changed it's colour.

To think that only a few hours before, his greatest worry had been what would happen when he and Blair departed for college.

They had left the United States in the hope that those forces that never ceased to threaten them could be left behind. They had run away, to be alone for a while. And for a blissful week, they had managed to maintain that illusion in this house. Far from the things of man, they had been the only two people in the universe.

It was only now, with Blair slumbering on his shoulder and the sound of the world waking up, that Chuck realized that the world will not cease turning for anyone.

Not even for Chuck Bass and Blair Waldorf.

**A/N: Well, there's the first chapter. Chapter Two will pick up a month from now, and trust me when I say that all of the characters form the last instalment will be back soon. I just needed to lay the scene: now the players can enter. **

**Thanks for reading and reviewing!**


	2. Chapter 2: Temporarily in New Haven

**Chapter Two:**** Temporarily in New Haven**

Where they will bury me

_I don't know._

_Many places might not be_

_Sorry to store me._

_The Midwest has right of origin._

_Already it has welcomed my mother_

_To its flat sheets._

_The English fens that bore me_

_Have been close curiously often._

_It seems I can't get away from_

_Dampness and learning._

_If I stay where I am_

_I could sleep in this educated earth._

_But if they are kind, they'll burn me_

_And send me to Vermont._

_I'd be an education for the trees_

_And would relish, really,_

_Flaring into maple each October –_

_My scarlet letter to you._

_Your stormy north is possible._

_You will be there, engrossed in its peat._

_It would be handy not _

_To have to cross the whole Atlantic_

_Each time I wanted to_

_Lift up the turf and slip in beside you._

- Anne Stevenson, "Temporarily in Oxford"

*

**One Month Later:**

It was the sort of cool Yale morning that authors try to grasp in their hands and write on a page and it seemed that every student had been drawn from their rooms to greet the new day. Whether their backs were bent under the weight of thick and musty tomes or their steps light and keen with a script or coffee in hand, the Elis of 2009 found it impossible not to take pause and regard with a sense of wonderment the beauty of their campus. There was, in every building, a perfect balance of lightness and weight, seen in every one of those towering roofs that strained towards the blue sky and even in the heavy stones that pulled the dreaming spires back to earth.

For a moment, Dan Humphrey teetered on the top step of Branford College, wishing that he could scurry off to class, or sit on a cobbled step and figure out a way to organise the words on the page so that they exactly reflected what he saw before him. He had almost decided to do just that: to forget the promise that had been pulled out from behind his teeth by Chuck Bass, forever ago. It would have been so easy to take yet another step towards the Dan Humphrey that was forming every day on this old campus.

He felt the cool air shift, as it so often did in the dark sandstone of the quadrangles around New Haven, and for a moment it was as if Vanessa Abrams was standing next to him; she would have loved the cinematic swirl of his coat. She would have made the brown and orange leaves come to life around him, so that for a fleeting moment he would be handsome. Of course, the moment passed; Vanessa Abrams had not been a part of his life for months.

Dan shook away the sadness that accompanied that thought. Each day he spent in the vaulted halls of the university of his dreams, the promise he had made to Chuck at that party in the Hamptons seemed less and less substantial. He had left behind the city pent of New York. Now was a time for cool air and learning, with the smell of freshly mowed grass greeting him each morning as he jogged to his Medieval Reading Group or to talk to his friends on the _Yale Daily News_.

He had made new friends, who shared his interests and possessed a thirst for knowledge – he had even been seeing a woman with long black hair, who had read one of his stories in the Yale Literary Magazine. Natasha had entered the party with a single-mindedness that Dan had come to expect of her: she had come to meet the man who had written the short story that she had read at least five times since the morning. She had done one better: she had gone home with him.

He had gone through a lot with those friends in New York, but a lot of his years had been spent in a sort of stasis, waiting for the day when he was free to be whoever he wanted to be. With time and distance, even the technicolour characters of Chuck and Blair had faded. And even Vanessa, whose phantom stood next to him for a moment, grinning with dimples in her cheeks, disappeared from view.

It was as if that house that Chuck had named Innisfree was no more than a dream. Dan had made a mental note to ask Blair what the Yates reference had meant. Of course, he had never chased up his question. Because from the first day of college, the impatient pull of college life had tugged at Dan's arm and pulled him in head first first. And somewhere along the way, the intense love that had grown between two of the most impossible people he had ever met had someone seemed a childish thing, rather than the precious creation that he had wanted to protect in high school.

It had become just that: a high school relationship. And in Dan's mind, the request that Chuck had made of him seemed so silly, such an immature thing, that it was easy to let him down, little by little.

If Chuck hadn't called him last week, he probably wouldn't have thought of ever checking in on Blair. But somewhere during the coffee break that divided his Semiotics class in half, he had answered his phone without looking at the caller ID – in the middle of laughing at a joke one of his classmates had made.

"Humphrey," came the flat greeting, and for a moment Dan had felt a swoop of guilt. He had promised Chuck, when their eyes met over Blair's back, that he would check up on her, that he would keep an eye on her.

"Chuck," Dan said warily. "Long time, no speak, man. How's Princeton?"

He could almost see Chuck's impatient eye roll. "Full of girls who wear sports jerseys and boys who wet themselves at the thought of free beer."

"Sounds great," Dan said weakly. "So what can I do for you?"

"You haven't been keeping your end of our agreement."

Chuck was never one to beat around the bush. "I've been busy. We've all been busy, man. Blair too."

"And so you haven't been keeping your end of our agreement."

Another flare of anger as Dan balanced his phone on his shoulder with a scolding cup of coffee in his hand. Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, reaching out to take the _Collected Plays of Oscar Wilde_ from his hand. "Oh right," Dan said sarcastically. "I forgot that the world revolves around Chuck Bass."

"Well see that you don't forget again," Chuck said, just as sarcastically. "And check on my fucking girlfriend."

Feeling a migraine come on, Dan gestured to his friends to go on ahead of him.

"Okay," Dan said after a brief pause. "I'll check up on her. But if she tries to stab me in the eye with one of her high heels when I interrupt her study sessions, then it will be on your head."

"I'll learn to live with the guilt," he drawled.

"Chuck - " but, the other boy had hung up, leaving Dan slightly miffed at the thought that the Upper East Side had managed to invade the day-to-day workings of Yale.

The phone call had been effective; Dan hadn't been able to think of anything else but checking up on the girl he had scarcely been a friend to over the last few months. He found himself talking about them compulsively - only slightly aware of the strange looks he was getting from his closest friends. Even his own sense that he was boring them with his obsessiveness was not enough to silence him.

It was Natasha who asked him point blank what his preoccupation was. "I hear you talking about this Chuck Bass, and I can't even tell whether you were actually friends with him or not?"

"We were friends for a season, really," Dan said thoughtfully. "He was a fascination, in a way. I mean, they both were. And at the time – it sounds stupid now – but at the time, the way there were together seemed like something amazing. They seemed so special and the way they clawed at each other was so raw. It was like…watching something…I don't know. Something big."

Ever practical, Natasha flipped her dark hair over her shoulders, exposing the dark tattoo that marked the pale flesh at the base of her neck. She was always this way, thoughtful with a hint of danger, but surprisingly down-to-earth. "So why the hesitation?"

"Because when I'm around something that big, I feel small. Like I could get swallowed by something I'm not even certain was anything in the first place."

He had felt like a prophet of doom for a moment, in the silence that followed his proclamation. But soon enough, Natasha had chucked, pulling the end of his scarf. "You're such a diva. Just go and say hi and stop acting like she's Juliet mother-fucking Capulet."

With that call-to-arms, Dan had felt too cowardly not to knock on Blair's dorm room, but now he was struck once more by a feeling of trepidation. It had taken him so long to define himself against the oppressive presences of those larger-than-life characters who had entered his life – he was enjoying the feeling of being someone who lived on his own terms. Walking through the halls of the university, he didn't have to put on a front; he didn't have to wear armour or try to be twice-as-good as his effete classmates.

So he found himself hesitating, knowing that he could have whiled away an entire day in this quadrangle; he could have found the words to describe the low light and the blue sky and the perfect balance of lightness and weight.

"It looks like fucking Hogwarts," one freshman noted, stubbing his cigarette out in the dark soil of a pot plant near where Dan was standing in his autumn coat.

After hearing that probing insight into the world around him, Dan came to a startling conclusion. It was time to once more climb into the ring with those people he had been so determined to leave behind. He would pick up their story mid-chapter, and see whether it had been worth anything to begin with.

*

Chuck had lied to Dan; although he had passed a week or two at Princeton, he had all but deserted the place in favour of spending his time with an older woman in New York.

"Was it just me or did that last guy look like Richard Nixon?" he drawled as he opened the door to the limousine for Eleanor.

"It was the voice," Eleanor said, trying to hide her smile. "He really looked more like that cartoon mouse with the big head."

"Brain?" Chuck asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes and his little boyfriend Pinky."

Chuck decided not to comment on either Eleanor's watching of television shows intended for children or her racy interpretation of _Pinky and the Brain_. He had learnt rather a lot about Eleanor in the last few weeks. And one of the main things he had learnt was that she processed bad news very much on her own terms: it would not do to forcing her onto an issue. She would come to it, or she would not, in her own time. For now, if she wanted to mock doctors who threw words around like biopsy and chemotherapy, he was more than happy to oblige.

She was quite like Chuck in that way. And in their eternally stubborn and immovable way, they both knew it but refused to articulate it.

There was, however, one issue that Chuck was extremely articulate about. He could not stand lying to Blair – even if it was by omission and "for her own good", as Eleanor said. Every moment he spent by Eleanor's side, Chuck couldn't shake the feeling that he was robbing Blair of time with her mother. But, he understood her situation. When he spoke to Blair – and those phone-calls were few and far-between – all he could think about was the magnitude of the secret he was holding, and the way it would crash into Blair's life and destroy everything if he told her.

He knew she noticed the way he was on the telephone; he knew that the little silences – as he felt the secret on the top of his tongue – terrified her. If his heart hadn't ached for her, he might have laughed. She had no idea, no concept, of the lengths to which he would go for her, how much she preoccupied his every thought.

"You can tell me anything, Chuck," she had said so gently that it made his heart ache. "Even though I'm not standing in front of you."

"Then let me tell you about what I dreamt about doing to you last night," he had drawled, dodging her longing for intimacy with his patented brand of suggestiveness.

"Don't start something you can't finish."

Her tone had been difficult to describe at that moment; it had been crackling with longing for him to be in front of her, so that she could see that the scent of deceit she could sense in every phone call could be analysed. There was desire, too – and that reassured him. But underlying everything was a strange sense of fatality, as if Blair believed that their time together was coming to an end. How deeply the thought chilled him, but he knew that until Eleanor allowed him to stop living in secrecy, he would never be able to face her without breaking down and admitting the entire vile business.

E-mails were safer; he could create an entire world in an email, describe how the cool weather was coming down and freezing the insides of the berries outside the main hall at Princeton, although it had been a while since he had last sat at one of the long tables in his elegant and formal robes.

He had liked Princeton, in that detached way of his. He had enjoyed the feeling as if he had stepped out of a scene from the past. And yet, he found that the instant the pomp and glamour of the scene lifted, the robes came off and the football jerseys came on, he was once more standing just to the side of a place he couldn't quite make sense of.

His mind had been so heavy recently, preoccupied with the dwindling list of specialists he and Eleanor had been working their way through, that he hadn't even thought about partying, hadn't even considered getting to know his peers. It was astounding really, to think that an entire generation of Princeton undergrads now thought that Chuck Bass' playboy ways were no more than a media beat-up. He had gained a reputation for being a rather quiet, rather prickly bookish type. He had invited no one into his room, decorated spartanly with only a collection of scotch and smelling of tobacco, and no one tried to enter.

The times he had been happiest at Princeton were when he was sitting in class, feeling the dull cottony texture of his brain when it first awoke shift into a higher gear. He enjoyed feeling as if he were learning something.

That feeling might have sustained him, if Eleanor hadn't text messaged him at that moment, informing him of the time of her next appointment. Their sojourns into doctors' offices had become no more than a vain hope that someone might contradict the long line of experts who assured her that the lump in her right breast was just as sinister as she and Chuck had first imagined.

Chuck had seen that the appointment was completely unworkable; he had two classes that day. For a moment, he had resented Eleanor. Each night she fell asleep next to a man who had vowed to love her until his dying breath, and yet she told him nothing. Instead, she leant on her daughter's boyfriend, who had wandered into her secret in the middle of the night, without realizing how much it would change in his own life. Why shouldn't she, if she insisted on being dishonest, walk into those appointments by herself? Why shouldn't she face this entirely alone if that was what she wanted?

Then he thought of Blair.

And the reasons that he should stand by Eleanor came flooding into his mind. Because there had been a time when he had been falling to pieces, and Blair had knitted him back together for no other reason than she couldn't stand to see him broken. Because he loved her in a way that he could scarcely articulate. Because this woman was her mother.

Because one morning in Goa, after a week of traipsing through the most desperate, abject poverty, Chuck had stepped out of the private apartment he had rented them and found her standing in the pool with the disappearing edge, staring out across the ocean.

It had been an emotional time on their trip, when beggars would come running up to both of them, pulling at their pockets and begging for money. They were no more than children, and yet, the guides that Chuck had hired swiped them away, waved sticks at them, so that their grimy faces registered fear before they scampered off. Chuck had felt no more than irritation. Although, he did feel a swoop of guilt when he realized that they didn't know that the contents of his bank account divided between them could have made every single one of them millionaires.

But Blair, when he glanced at her, was wiping angrily at the tears that had rolled silently down her cheeks, avoiding Chuck's eyes.

"Don't," he said suddenly, pulling her hands away from her face.

"Don't what?"

"Don't hide from me," he whispered.

And so, she had allowed those tears to fall, clutching him close to her, sobbing for the children who would never escape the slums.

He had quietly booked them into a luxurious resort, hoping that some time in an oasis would erase those dark thoughts from her mind. And yet, that morning, when the sun was rising and her back faced him, Chuck knew that she was thinking about those skinny legs and dirty faces that had peeked out at them from behind silk stalls.

Without saying a word, he had pulled off his clothes and stepped into their private pool, wrapping his arms around her waist and taking in the view with her.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she said quietly. "I've never felt like this before, you know? I always find people who try to sign you up for charities annoying. I've never really even thought about…anything that we've seen."

"I like that you're affected by it," Chuck whispered, turning her around to face him, wrapping her legs around his waist.

"You like that I'm an emotional wreck?" Blair asked with an eyebrow raised.

Chuck pressed his forehead against hers, wishing not for the first time that there was some way to gain entry into her mind. "Yes. I like that. You show me how I'm meant to feel about things."

"Because otherwise you wouldn't know?" she whispered.

"Because all I know is how I feel about _you_," he said seriously.

For a moment, she had been completely still. And then, she had kissed him with so much fervour that he had pressed her back against the edge of the pool and removed her bikini without so much as breaking their extended kiss.

Since that day in the markets, Chuck had found that Blair had come to symbolize the right course of action. So when he saw her face in his mind, while sitting in the library, the next step he took had been abundantly clear to him.

He decided to take a brief leave of absence from Princeton, although he hadn't seen fit to inform the university of his decision. He had merely packed up his shaving, with its old-fashioned brush, and a few other personal bits and pieces – including the picture of he and Blair at prom that he bashfully balanced on the bookshelf while cringing at the cliché – and called his limousine.

"You're here," Eleanor said with surprise when he beat her to the appointment.

"I said I would be, so I am," Chuck shrugged.

"Right, well. That's fine," she said uncomfortably, before speeding ahead of him towards the elevator. Chuck hated to feel like he was following after her like a dog, and so he made a point to walk as slowly as possible, so that she knew he would not be her attendant.

It was illusory, of course. He made sure to keep up with her stride..

*

Breakfast was Serena's favourite meal at Brown. As she piled her plate with eggs and the plentiful bacon that her vegan classmates eschewed, she found herself once more marvelling at the feeling that had come over her the instant she walked into these grounds at Providence.

To feel that every moment she spent here she was one step closer to forming the person she would one day become, was the most heady experience of her life. She sometimes felt overwhelmed by the sheer amount of choice available to her in this place. On any given day, as she hurried off to her "Youth Cultures: Images and Ideas of Youth", "Art and Archaeology of South East Asia", or "Islam and Politics: Modernity Challenges"[1] classes, she would stop at the various stalls full of passionate students and sign up to the latest cause or activity. She had even joined the theatrical society and would be playing the coveted role of Third Policeman in the end-of-semester play.

"It was the happiest time of my life," Lily said dreamily while supervising the removalists who would carry Serena's worldly possessions into her too-small room. "I just want you to take it in both hands. What do you think you're doing with that footstool – Serena, you keep things under control in here, I'm going to go make sure the men don't reduce your desk to firewood."

Lily and Rufus had been stretched rather thin on this day; with Dan moving into Yale on the same day, and with Chuck starting at Princeton, they had debated for ages how to mark the coming-of-age moment for their respective children for weeks. In the end, Lily had gone to Providence and Rufus Yale, both sorry that they would be unable to both attend Dan and Serena's first days at their colleges. Balancing the varying needs of their children had become a mania for both of them.

They had been discussing it once more at Chuck's house in the Hamptons at a lunch that Blair had thrown for the Humphrey-Van Der Woodsen clan.

"Princeton and Yale are fairly close together," Rufus reasoned. "Perhaps we could go to Yale first and then Princeton?"

"But then Charles will miss half of the day," Lily objected, ripping open a roll that Eric passed her. "Let alone getting to Providence on the same day. Really, it's ridiculous the way all these orientation weeks begin on the same day."

"I don't think many families have three kids the same age," Serena muttered through a mouthful of tabouli.

"What do you think, Charles?"

Serena had glanced over to see Chuck start at the sound of his name. He was seated at the head of the table, with Rufus at the opposite end. Blair sat to Chuck's left, so that the couple angled towards each other in that private way of theirs. It could have been Serena's imagination, but it seemed that as the week progressed from that first party, Chuck seemed more and more withdrawn. Those dark and private eyes of his seemed to be shielded even from Blair. Although sometimes Serena would catch him staring at Blair so intensely that it took Serena's breath away.

Something was preying on his mind, and Serena realized suddenly that it must have been Blair and the impending separation they would undergo.

Serena and Nate had already had The Conversation, of course. They had agreed to give each other space and freedom, neither wanting to end a relationship and friendship of many years with one of them cheating. And so, they had agreed to tentatively "break-up" for at least the first semester, to revisit when Nate returned from California and Serena from Providence.

At least, that had been the agreement.

Serena could imagine, however, that Chuck and Blair could stubbornly end summer without once having spoken about it, both unwilling either to break the spell of their time together or be the first to express their concerns. Serena knew that they had scarcely been aware of the thrust of the conversation, ensconced up the other side of the table with Eric and Dan close by. When Lily said Chuck's name, it was as if he woke up from a deep reverie. So lonely and remote at times, Serena could never quite understand how Blair withstood the flatness of his inflection and the depth of his slumps.

"What do I think about what issue?" Chuck asked carefully.

He was still oddly formal with them all, Serena mused while sipping her iced tea and cutting into the cold cuts and salads that filled the table. Serena could see that Blair's hand had slipped off the top of the table in order to stroke his leg under the table; as if talking to his family was some kind of ordeal that he needed to be supported through.

"How we're going to move you, Dan and Serena into your dorm rooms on the same day," Lily said gently.

Chuck narrowed his eyes, almost suspiciously. "Why would you move me into my dorm room?"

Serena knew that he hadn't intended to sound quite so arch about the entire issue. He was genuinely confused by the gesture. The thought had obviously never occurred to him. He had no doubt assumed he would transition into college the way he had crossed every milestone in his life: alone.

Lily gestured helplessly, visibly wilting. "I just assumed…" she searched their faces, looking for some tacit form of support for her assumption. This was what parents did, wasn't it? Serena offered her mother a smile, although part of her shook her head at Lily's presumption. It was never safe to presume with Chuck.

"We just thought you might need some help with moving your things," Rufus jumped in.

"Oh," Chuck said stiffly. "I'm sure I'll manage."

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence, before Rufus shrugged nonchalantly, as if the interaction had been no big deal. "So I guess we'll make two stops."

Serena cleared her head of these thoughts as she waved to the various groups of friends she had made, who gestured for her to join them at their breakfast tables. She waved at them distractedly, preferring instead to sit by herself this morning.

It had been remarkably easy to leave everyone behind. Lily was so taken up by Rufus that she rarely thought to call Serena. For her part, Serena scarcely spoke to her friends from New York, although she occasionally glanced over their Facebook profiles and pondered over how they had all changed with entry into college. A few boys from St Jude's had come to Brown, along with three of the quieter girls from Constance. The boys were much more inclined to strike up conversation with Serena then the girls. She had run into Penelope on campus the other day; apparently Penelope's new boyfriend, a lacrosse player from Harvard, had a match against Brown that week.

It had been a remarkably pleasant discussion; although Penelope had a mean streak, she seemed to have calmed down since school. She was studying pre-med and carried a thick _Grey's Anatomy_ with her at all times.

"I have to study every second of the day," Penelope said, rolling her eyes. "Princeton's not like Constance. There's no chaff. Everyone is there for a reason."

"Have you seen Chuck much?" Serena asked, her shoulder starting to ache from the weight of her textbooks.

"Haven't you heard?" Penelope said, for a moment slipping back into the gossipy seventeen-year-old she had once been. "Chuck is AWOL. One minute he's always haunting the library stacks or drinking scotch alone in his room…probably moping over Blair…and the next he's gone." Something caught her eye and she started moving away from Serena. "There's Paul. It was good to see you, Serena."

Serena frowned. "Yeah. You too."

Since that run in, Serena had found her thoughts increasingly preoccupied by thoughts of Chuck – and Blair, who had been surprisingly recalcitrant about her experience of Yale. Was it possible that something was happening to her old friends without her knowledge? Serena felt a swoop of guilt when she thought about the various times she had screened Nate's calls in the last month.

Serena enjoyed a mouthful of eggs, pondering her enigmatic adopted brother. Eric and Chuck so easily used the word "brother". They never bothered qualifying it. Serena was not quite as comfortable with dropping the "adopted" part. It was a habit, probably, from when Chuck used the term "sis" as a tool to torture her when Lily and Bart had been married. Serena pulled out her phone, struck by a brainwave.

"Serena," Lily's voice sounded harried even over the cracking quality of Serena's cell phone service. "I'm running incredibly late for Rufus…"

"Sorry," Serena said automatically, not quite sure why she had to apologise to her mother for calling her, but so used to their dynamic that she didn't question it. "I was just trying to get in contact with Chuck. I called him at the dorms - "

"Honestly," Lily said, distracted. "They technology you kids have at your fingertips and you call him on a landline? Maybe you should just subscribe to his twitter feed."

Serena rolled her eyes at being lectured about technology by a woman who still used a filofax. "I subscribed to Chuck's twitter for about ten minutes two years ago. He calls himself _I-am-Chuck-Bass_ and every update was about his favourite sexual positions or some girl who left their underwear in his coat pocket."

"Serena," Lily protested. "I know that you're at college now, but is it really necessary to make crass jokes?"

"Who's joking?" Serena said darkly. "The only difference is now I know they're Blair's underpants."

Serena could all but see Lily pressing her finger to her temple and sucking in her cheeks. "Was there a point to this call?"

"Yes," Serena said sullenly. "I called him and there was no answer, so I was wondering whether you'd heard from him."

"I'm sure he's busy with school work," Lily said distractedly. "He'll get back to you."

"Yeah. Sure. Okay," Serena knew that her brow was furrowed as she poked at her eggs. "Well you should go and meet Rufus."

"Love you," Lily said automatically.

"I love - "

The line went dead.

Perhaps Nate would know what was happening in Chuck's head. Although it seemed unlikely that the two spent hours each night talking on the telephone, Serena knew that if Chuck was feeling stifled, he might be compelled to fly to California to have a weekend of blowing off steam with his old friend. Of course, he was probably at Yale with Blair, especially when you factored in his strange bromance with Dan Humphrey.

She could call Blair, although if Chuck had gone "AWOL" as Penelope had put it, there was a chance that Blair would not know anything about it. If that was the case, Serena didn't want to interrupt Blair in the course of her college dream to make her fret about Chuck.

She would contact Dan first – to check up on both Blair and Chuck. The thought of calling Nate and having to awkwardly explain why she had been ignoring his calls was not something Serena relished, but she would send him an email, perhaps. Having a brainwave, Serena also decided to call Vanessa at NYU, in the off chance that Chuck had decided to go to New York on hiatus without telling Lily.

"Serena," a girl with a severe black fringe called, holding a banner decrying animal cruelty…or perhaps supporting it? It was hard to keep track of the various causes of her classmates. "Protest – at 2pm in the Quad."

Serena sighed. Typical Chuck Bass: managing to spoil her mood even across state lines.

*

There was something peculiar about the atmosphere around Blair's dorm room. In a quiet corridor on the second floor, Dan found it hard to imagine someone as socially forward as Blair living in such a forgotten corner.

For the first week at Yale, Dan had seen Blair around often. Neither entirely sure what to make of each other in this new context, they had made one of those false promises to meet up and have coffee, although it had never eventuated Basically, Dan had found his own clique and assumed that Blair had as well.

He grimaced at the recollection of the bug-eyed campus committee taking in Blair's hight heels and over-stated dress. There had been quite a few snickers at the orientation talk, when Blair had studiously taken notes in a ring-bound notebook.

"When will the socials be held?" she asked matter-of-factly in question time, her day-planner open and covered in her pedantic post-its.

"The…uh…socials?" the bemused President of the campus committee asked. "I'd imagine somewhere between the cruise and the croquet meet."

The entire audience tittered and Dan had cringed at Blair's cluelessness, sitting there with a large belt cinching her waist when everyone else wore jeans and t-shirts. For a moment, she had looked either side of her to figure out what was making everyone titter, before she realized that she was the butt of the joke. Dan couldn't shake the image of her siting slightly less proudly in her chair, her teeth gritted.

"There's always one," a guy behind Dan commented wisely. "Princess-type. Thinks that college is a scene from _Legally Blonde_."

Dan had felt a swoop of sympathy and embarrassment on Blair's behalf. Without Chuck sitting next to her, she seemed too small for this cavernous lecture theatre. Her gestures seemed affected. No one could see, as Dan had seen, the capacity she had for loyalty and love. No one could see anything more than a pampered girl who didn't quite know how to dress for the occasion.

And yet, Dan was ashamed to admit, he had sensed with the awareness of someone who wants desperately for college to be different to high school, that to stick up for Blair at this moment would have been social suicide. So, he had distanced himself from her, reasoning that soon enough she would find her people.

He had seen her at only one party: a disgusting boy had staggered over to her, looking like he might hurl on her shoes at any moment.

"What's a beautiful girl like you doing all by yourself?"

"I'm selective," she shrugged.

"Want some company?"

Blair's face was the very picture of disdain. "Why, do you know someone who isn't disgustingly intoxicated?"

The boy's face registered confusion, but he leant heavily on the wall next to Blair's shoulder. Dan found himself hovering nearby, ready to step in if the joker tried anything.

"Feisty," he said, finally. "I like that. I like _you_."

"And I'd like to be alone," she said, before turning around and stalking right out of the party.

"What an uptight bitch," he slurred to no one in particular, watching Blair's departing back.

"She has a boyfriend," Dan said, grimacing when the boy turned to look at him, running his hand through his mop of unruly blonde hair.

"A boyfriend?" he asked, rolling his eyes and trying to straighten his collar. "Who cares? A boyfriend's not a husband."

"This boyfriend is Chuck Bass," Dan said, grinning smugly when the boy turned an even deeper shade of green. "And trust me when I say that he is the jealous type."

"Perhaps you'd like some help getting home?" a well-dressed boy that Dan recognised as one of the Skulls and Bones "douchebags" (as Chuck called them) from the Yale open day last year, who had tied him up, thinking he was Nate Archibald.

Dan almost felt sorry for the guy when he saw that several of the Bones' crew had congregated in order to "help" the blonde boy getting home. Dan remembered that Chuck had commissioned them with the task of ensuring that no one with a Y-chromosome talked to Blair. Come morning, Dan walked passed that same curly mob of blonde hair, tied to a flagpole on the lawn, completely naked. It seems that they had gotten crueller in the last year. At least Dan had been allowed to keep his underwear on.

_Come on, Humphrey. Don't be a pussy._ It was really quite mortifying to note that the voice of Dan's voice of reason sounded a lot like Chuck Bass.

The door cracked open to expose Blair still in her dressing gown. In spite of himself, Dan nearly gasped at the sight of her unwashed hair and the dark shadows under her eyes. He glanced at his watch. It was passed midday. Although it might not be unusual for a college undergrad to sleep long into the afternoon, Blair was an infamous early riser.

"I'm going to have to tie her to the bed at this rate," Chuck had complained one Saturday morning, when Blair had sprung out of bed and woken him up at the indecent hour of 7 a.m. Probably thinking that if he was being robbed of sleep, no one else deserved to sleep in, so he had called Dan. "Come to think of it, that idea does have some potential."

"Why don't you problem solve that while I sleep for five more hours," Dan snapped, his face buried under his pillow.

"Where's the fun in that?"

It wasn't just this departure from her usual schedule that threw Dan, but also the state that the shared living space was in. Blair usually insisted that her dwellings be pristine at all times. Dan was fairly certain that the high heels and designer bags that littered the ground belonged to Blair. It was as if, at the end of each day, she dumped her book bag on the ground without glancing at ti.

"Dan," she said softly, as if still confused by sleep. But within a minute, she seemed to register how unlikely it was for Dan to appear at her door, when he usually so pointedly avoided her. Panic overtook her. "What's wrong? Is it Chuck? Is everything okay?"

"He's fine," Dan said soothingly. "Just as insufferable as always, last time I spoke to him."

"He rang you?" Blair said sharply.

"Last week," Dan said carefully, his foot creeping over the threshold of her room. "Can I come in?"

She seemed to pause for a moment, as if searching for a reason to deny him entry. When none sprang to mind, she pulled the door open wide. The mess, he saw, extended all over the living area.

"Be my guest," she said with a hint of sarcasm, as if daring him to comment on the unruly living quarters.

When they sat uncomfortably on the floral couch (surely, this had to belong to one of Blair's roommates. It was so entirely out of character for Blair to have something so garish in her presence.

Her bedroom door was open, giving him the full view of her walls, her cupboards, her bureaux, which was teeming with clothes that had been unceremoniously dumped without folding. She lived among her things, spread all around her. Dan had never known her to be so forthright with her possessions. In her house in New York, everything had been placed just so, mirroring the immaculate bearing of their owner. He noticed, with surprise, that the only thing that was missing was any outward display of her relationship with Chuck.

There was no picture of him by her bed, as Dan had assumed there would be. There was no photograph of him anywhere in the dorm. There was no sign of him anywhere. Dan felt a swoop of misgiving. It was as if there had been some kind of upheaval in Blair's character, as if all that had once been kept so carefully hidden was no available to everyone, but the one thing that she kept most secret was the love for Chuck that anyone had been able to see.

"If I'd known I was going to have a guest I would have put on some clothes," Blair said blankly, fiddling with a fray on the corner of the sofa.

"It's fine," Dan said awkwardly.

"When did you speak to Chuck?" she asked softly.

"Last week."

"Last week," Blair repeated in a strange uninflected monotone.

"That or there about." Dan found his leg jiggling in a way that must have annoyed her. He couldn't help it. She must have sensed that there was nowhere he wanted _less_ to be than in this depressing quarter of the university. "We didn't talk much. How is he going?"

"You mean how did he sound in the last three –line email? Or in the last awkward telephone conversation? Both were more than a week ago."

Dan frowned, remembering the intensity of Chuck's insistence that he check on Blair. There had to be something going on. It was inconceivable to Dan that the couple could go for more than a day without talking to each other.

"He must be busy."

"Yes," Blair said, her eyes distant. "Everyone's very busy."

Dan bit his lip. He could hear a hint of wistfulness in Blair's tone, as if she had mentally added: _everyone except for me._

"Have you spoken to Serena and Nate?" Dan asked, searching for something to say.

"Not recently. Vanessa called the other day, but I haven't gotten back to her yet. Apologise for me next time you speak to her, would you?"

"Vanessa and I haven't been speaking," Dan said, feeling a sense of glumness come upon him at the thought.

Blair looked up, surprised. "You guys broke up?"

"We're at college," Dan shrugged, without thinking. Blair sagged. Dan noticed for the first time how thin she was. "Of course, not every couple is the same. I mean you and Chuck…"

"Don't patronise me, Humphrey," Blair snapped. "Do you think I like being this pathetic girl who can't let go of a high school boyfriend?"

Dan blinked at her sudden bitterness. "There was more to it than that, Blair. There _is_ more to you and Chuck than that."

It was a strange feeling, to see Blair so changed. Dan had been so used to witnessing her as a protagonist in a grand love story, that to see her look so child-like in her nightdress was strange and disturbing. For the first time, Dan found it impossible to imagine the girl in front of him as in the act of love at all. No one could have intruded upon this new version of Blair, because there was no place for intrusion. Surely she must remember the time when she was the heroine of the story that Dan had witnessed; perhaps that was the cause of her bitterness. The inadequacy that had come upon her made her insubordinate, as if she knew that she could no longer participate in her own great love. [2]

For the first time, Dan was relieved that he had never experienced the perfect fury of the love that existed between Chuck and Blair. It was laying waste to her. She would never survive it.

"If there was more to us then that," Blair said, suddenly desperate, leaning towards him. "Then why does he avoid me, why does he refuse to come and visit me – and why does he make excuses when I suggest I come and visit him?"

"I don't know," Dan said honestly, recoiling slightly from the suffocating sight of her neediness. "But there has to be a reason."

"Maybe it's the obvious one," Blair said flatly, her eyes once more distant and detached. "I'm being phased out. And the bastard doesn't have the spine to tell me face-to-face."

"He asked me to come here," Dan said suddenly. "To check on you. To make sure that you were okay."

"What did he say?"

Blair's face was suddenly greedily interested, as if she was ravenous for the information that Dan might be able to give her. Ravenous for the insight he may be able to offer her into Chuck's psyche. She had never before been a stranger to his mind. Dan felt for her, but hated her for making herself pathetic. For undoing all the advancements she had made in the last year. Dan wished that Vanessa had been here: she was so good at talking to Blair.

"Just that," Dan said, apologetically.

"Oh."

"Blair," Dan said gently. "Why don't you go and visit him?"

Her chin raised slightly, in what Dan recognised as her defiant pose. "Because if he doesn't need me then I don't need him."

"Don't you think you're a bit passed those games?"

"Apparently not."

Dan sighed. She was so impossibly stubborn. He needed to get out of this claustrophobic room. He needed to pass once more into the sunlight and back into the life he had carved out for himself in New Haven. He was sorely tempted to tell Chuck that she was perfectly fine, so that his role as go-between would be over. But, of course, there was no possibility of that, after sitting in this room in front of this strange woman who wore Blair's face.

"I should be going."

She shrugged non-committally, annoyed at his pleasantries, when both of them knew that he had been eyeing the exits since walking into this place. He took her silence for assent, and stood up, needlessly smoothing his jeans. She seemed to have retreated into herself, with one leg pulled up to her chin. As he walked to the exit, Blair finally spoke.

"It's not supposed to be like this," Blair said quietly. "This is my dream. I'm not supposed to think about him all the time."

Dan wasn't sure what to say.

"Dan?" she asked, ignoring his silence. "Could you do me a favour?"

It was always better to check what you were agreeing to with Blair Waldorf. Dan found that he couldn't turn around to look at her. "What is it?"

"When you talk to Chuck could you make me sound a little less pathetic than you probably think I am?"

"I don't think you're pathetic Blair," he said softly, without turning around.

"Really? Because I do."

The tone of her voice haunted him, long after the door clicked shut behind him.

*

"Can I ask you something?"

Chuck looked at Eric with an eyebrow raised. It was so like Eric to want to make sure that he was comfortable before even posing the question. There was something so gentle about Eric. It terrified Chuck, to think that this gentleness wandered around unprotected in the world.

No one but Eleanor and Eric knew that Chuck was in New York. Not wanting to raise Cyrus' suspicions, Eleanor had not allowed him to stay at the Waldorf penthouse. Chuck hadn't wanted to stay with Lily, knowing that there would be unending questions about the reason for Chuck's visit if he stayed over.

When he mentioned to Nate that he had some business to attend to in New York, that he didn't want anyone to know about, his old friend had been quick to offer the use of his own house. Anne, who at the best of times had a delicate constitution, was once more interned in their house in the Hamptons, her fragile nerves needing a break from the scandal surrounding Howard's trial. The verdict would be handed down some time in the next month.

For the time being, Chuck had the entire house to himself. He would have liked to stay here with Blair, once more enjoying enough privacy so that they could rid themselves of the few restraints they exercised while staying in the same house as their respective families. There was nothing more thrilling than being entirely alone with Blair, feeling the heat between their bodies and hearing her voice crying out as he took her again and again - on the dining room table, on the floor of the hallway, standing up in the shower. It had been this way at Innisfree, and during their trip (except for the time they had spent with Harold and Roman).

Of course, having Blair with him was not an option.

Finding himself bored by the necessity of keeping a low profile, Chuck had called Eric. Faithful as ever, Eric had come over to enjoy a drink with his brother. He had listened with such stillness and empathy when Chuck told him about Eleanor's medical condition. He had been so honestly and deeply saddened by the news that all the specialists spoke in one voice about the cancer: it was declaring war on her system, and that they must begin a regiment of chemotherapy as soon as possible. He had been so understanding when Chuck described Eleanor's stubborn refusal to face the matter: her insistence that they visit every doctor in New York before she even consider undertaking chemotherapy, let alone informed Cyrus and Blair.

Watching the way Eric operated, so full of grace, Chuck was at once overwhelmingly aware of his own inadequacy when it came to human interactions. Eric never had an agenda, wanting instead to forge meaningful connexions. Chuck never let anyone within striking distance, except, of course, Blair. Eric had urged him to convince Eleanor to tell Blair, so that Chuck could stop avoiding her in a way that was undoubtedly making both of them miserable.

"You miss her," Eric said gently, unwillingly sipping the scotch that Chuck had insisted on pouring for him. "I can feel it from here."

"I can't do it. I can't hide this from her. After everything. We promised no more secrets."

"This isn't your secret to tell," Eric reasoned.

"But it's mine to keep."

For a while, before Eric had broken the silence with his question, they had been sitting in silence, watching the low fire in the grate that the Captain had always kept well stocked. Eric felt groggy in the warmth, his head light from the two glasses of scotch he had imbibed. He had been wondering about something for the longest time, and it was only now, after enough drinks to make him daring, that Eric found the courage to ask the question. [3]

"Where is your mother buried?"

Chuck froze for a moment, staring intently at his glass. "I have no idea."

Eric blinked at him, surprised. "I'm sure Jack would know."

Chuck's vision snapped back to focus. In an instant, Eric knew that he had overstepped the boundary, and that it was only because of Chuck's intense affection for him that he wasn't being sent from the house. With barely contained rage, Chuck sipped his drink. "If you're trying to match-make me with my father, Eric. Then I assure you that you're wasting your time."

"You can't avoid him forever," Eric said stubbornly. "He's your father, after all."

"Perhaps we should drop it," Chuck said flatly.

"But - "

"That wasn't a suggestion," he said in that cold and unaffected tone of his.

"It was what – an order?" Eric couldn't hide his annoyance.

Chuck stared at him impassively. "It's late. Perhaps you should go."

"Fine." Eric stood up, feeling a sting of rejection. Gathering up his coat, he cast one more look at Chuck, so elegant and beautiful in the fire-light. "You're so eager to help Blair's mother. Maybe it's time you cut your own some slack."

"My mother is dead."

Eric spread his fingers wide, fighting the urge to shake Chuck by the shoulders. "So what's the point of still hating her?"

Chuck's jaw twitched. It seemed that there would be no more conversation tonight. Grimacing slightly, Eric swallowed the rest of his drink. Turning to leave, Eric spare once more glance at Chuck's immobile form.

"You're mother might be dead, but your father isn't. I would hate to see you spend the rest of your life letting your pride get in the way of having a relationship with him."

Chuck offered him a thin smile, suddenly cold and distant. This was a side of Chuck that Eric hated. He envied Chuck his ability to be so detached when he was under threat, when Eric always felt like he was on the verge of tears.

"Is that all?" he drawled.

"I guess so," Eric said, his cheeks pink with emotion. "I'll leave you alone now. I know that's how you prefer it."

Chuck said nothing as Eric let himself out. He watched the fire long into the night, until it put itself out with a whiff of smoke and a low exhalation.

*

[1] Units of study at the University of Sydney, at least…

[2] Based on the description of Jenny Petherbridge in Djuna Barnes' _Nightwood._

[3] Inspired by Cassandra Claire's _Draco Veritas_

A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Don't forget to check out my forum on . .net/myforums/Nyx_Underwood/1784712/

It's the best way to influence the course of the story. As I said in the last chapter of _The Yellow Wood_…I am thinking of continuing this story…with some new chapters. Let me know if you're keen for more.


	3. Chapter 3: Naive and Sentimental Lover

**Chapter Three**: **The Naïve and Sentimental Lover**

"_Nevertheless, for an instant, and perhaps for much longer in terms of the interior experience of Aldo Cassidy, he had the sense of being caught up in a world that was not as controllable as the world he was accustomed to: a world in short capable of dismaying metaphysical leaps, and although a second examination soon restored the drive to its rightful position in the scheme of things, its agility, or rather the remembrance of it, caused him to remain seated for a moment while he collected himself. It was with some distrust, therefore, as well as a lingering sense of disconnection, that he finally opened the door and cautiously lowered one well-shod foot on the capricious surface of the earth…"_

- John le Carre, "The Naïve and Sentimental Lover"

*

"I'm worried about Eric."

It took a moment for Blair to comprehend what he was saying; she was never at her best at two in the morning. When the tinny sound of her mobile phone broke the silence of her cramped dorm room, she had considered silencing it and trying to rediscover that beautiful, dreaming space she had been rudely awakened from.

She had been dreaming about Chuck.

It was only when she looked at the caller ID and saw Chuck's name (with a picture of them that Serena had taken on graduation day) that she found herself waking up entirely. From the moment she saw that he was calling she knew that there would be no sleep for her tonight.

"Why are you worried about Eric?" she whispered, sitting up and sliding slippers onto her feet.

He always started telephone conversations this way, without any salutation and without announcing himself. It was as if he wanted to justify immediately that he had a valid reason for calling. For Blair's part, she could never stay stationary in bed when he rang. Even though the ground was chilly and a fierce wind battered the windowpanes, she found herself walking to the low chair she kept next to her window.

Even in this weather, she could see that many of her classmates were stumbling-about-drunk, and across the courtyard, lights burnt even at this late hour. Blair could scarcely remember what it was like to feel that sleep was a dreadful waste of an evening. It seemed to be all she was capable of doing at the moment.

"We fought," Chuck said flatly.

"You and Eric?" she asked in surprise. "What on earth did you fight about?"

There was a long pause. This was what she hated about their telephone conversations. When she was with him, a pause in conversation usually represented a languished touch, or a tongue on salty skin. Over the telephone, these silences sounded full of bed intentions, ripe with those things that he was keeping hidden from her. To know that he was standing in a room she had never seen, in a university to which she had never been – these things created an unbearable sense of distance.

Those silences always sounded like self-censorship. His entire life was an impenetrable mystery to her. And during the first week of school, she had quizzed him incessantly about his movements, about his classes, wanting to give some shape to the substance of his life. She knew that he hated it; had never liked accounting for himself. She had never done it before, knowing that he needed to have some sense of space and privacy, even from her.

Now, she didn't even bother asking, sensing his evasion, not wanting to make the rare phone calls they enjoyed a burden.

"My mother. And Jack."

"Oh," she said softly. "He wants you to contact Jack?"

"He did this '_he'll always be your father'_ bit."

Blair frowned, feeling the familiar coil of anger at the thought of those adults who had let him down. "I hardly think he deserves the privilege, after everything that happened."

"I know you don't."

So that had been the reason for his call: he had wanted to hear Blair as she stubbornly held the grudges he could not hold on to with as much intensity. So used to being slighted, the intensity of the betrayal was ebbing for Chuck. The only person who would feel the affront as personally as he did was Blair.

He still needed her. The thought warmed her.

"Has he even made any overtures that he wants to make up for everything?"

A pause. "He's called a few times. I never answered."

"You didn't tell me that." She hated the way her voice sounded: that whining, needful note of a hand pulling at his shirt.

"Only a few times over the last month," he said carefully. "I didn't think it was important."

She had know this would happen; that any shift in her tone would be met by him pulling back, retreating into himself. It had always come so naturally before, she wasn't used to having to try to discern his moods.

"Okay," she said flatly, running her finger over the cool plane of the glass in her window.

"I wasn't keeping it from you on purpose, Blair." She imagined him pinching the top of his nose, trying to placate his foolish girlfriend over the phone.

"I know," she said more gently this time. Searching about for something to say, she bit her lip. "Don't worry about Eric. He just worries about you. He wants to make sure that you have people around who care about you."

"He shouldn't worry about me." Blair wondered whether Chuck was talking about Eric of her. "How's school?"

Blair found herself walking back towards her bed without thinking. At the end of their conversations, frustrating and heartbreaking though they were, she liked to climb into bed and make-believe that they were saying goodnight to each other in person. She recognised the sound of impending sleep in Chuck's voice. There was a faint rustle, and Blair knew that he was also lying down on his bed.

"It's fine."

"Are you sure?"

She frowned into the darkness. "You shouldn't worry about me. And make up with Eric."

"I'll arrange to see him again in a few day," he said tiredly.

"Goodnight, Chuck. I love you."

"I love you too," he said softly. "You know that, right?"

"I know," she said, wishing that it didn't feel like a lie.

It was only after he hung up and she lay there, holding the phone in her hand, that something occurred to her. _I'll arrange to see him _again_ in a few days_. Was it possible that while she and Chuck had not seen each other for a month, Eric was regularly visiting him at Princeton? Surely if he could find time to see Eric, he could make time to see Blair. Not wanting him to see the way her world had been reduced to the four walls of her dorm room – essentially living in squalor – she hadn't wanted to ask him to visit her at Yale. And yet, every time she suggested that she come and visit him, he made some flimsy excuse. It seemed that the same excuses did not apply to Eric Van Der Woodsen.

She never did fall asleep again that night.

*

For as long as Eric could remember, every school report that he had received had contained some reference to the fact he was a "sensitive" boy.

It always stood out on the page. Usually, in the few minutes she spent reviewing these carefully composed reports and grades from his teachers, Lily would pass over the sentiment entirely, applauding his good grades and saying nothing at all about this puzzling quality in him. Even when he read it himself, he wasn't certain whether the teacher had intended the observation as a compliment or an insult.

_Eric is a sensitive boy_, they would write. They would move on almost immediately, talking quickly about some project or assignment that he had completed to some exceptional level, or lamenting his lack of ability at sports. And yet, semester after semester, there were the same words.

Perhaps they intended it as a warning; surely Lily must have thought so when he knocked quietly on her bedroom door, a bath towel pressed to his wrist.

"Mum," he said, apologetically. "I've done something stupid."

The evening was a blur. For hours he had mused over the knife he had shanghaied from the kitchen drawer. It had been a shocking thing, to see how fast and effective this method was. He bled more than he expected, and the instant his skin ran a strange rust colour, he knew that it had been a mistake. There was a degree of catharsis there, he supposed. But really, there had been a humiliating realization that he did not want to kill himself, and that he would have to face his mother and admit not only that he had done something incredibly stupid and excruciatingly clichéd, but also that he would not be able to fix it without her help.

Eric had a distinct memory of Lily's facial expression before the loss of blood and fortifying vodka he had been drinking overpowered his small frame. It was simultaneously shocked and unsurprised, as if she had always suspected this strange "sensitivity" in him would cause nothing but trouble, but that she hadn't expected it to be at his own hand.

He had been thinking about that night a lot recently, trying to remember what it was that had provoked him to permanently scar his wrist. There was still nerve damage there; he would never be able to play the piano as he once had. Music had been some comfort to him during this entire process, and yet now, when he was faced with the loneliness of a summer passed largely alone, he had no outlet.

It was also something that he had to explain, again and again. And from the moment that a new friend or potential lover saw it, he was immediately classified either as a depressive malcontent or an attention-grabbing teenager.

He remembered the cool way Chuck had described it:

"_Your unreliable sister had just dickered off to Fuckville, USA, leaving you entirely alone in a household run by a woman so terrified of self-reflection that she'd marry the family dog if it promised not to look too closely at her. And you found out that all the reasons that you felt bad were so inconsequential that your mother didn't even notice that you were acting out of the ordinary_…_So you did it for attention, basically."_

It was typical Chuck: the way he had hit the nail on the head while missing the point entirely. Chuck would never understand, really. Because he never depended on anyone; he had never wanted to. It was a course of unending frustration for Blair, the way that Chuck insisted on seeing to his own affairs.

He had rehearsed the night in his head many times; it had been no more than academic reflection until the moment his hand moved, as if of its own accord, to cut his skin. Until one night, the desperate feeling of being someone who was supposed to be mature, someone who wasn't as much trouble as Serena, was too much for him. It took a while for Eric to admit it to himself: he had done it because he wanted to be an invalid for a while. He wanted to be scooped up and cared for and worried about. He had done it for attention.

Chuck had been right, of course.

At the thought of Chuck, Eric cringed slightly, remembering the way Chuck had dismissed him for broaching the topic of his parents. It had been a mistake to bring it up, Eric knew, and a part of him was tempted to call his brother and explain himself.

Even as he formulated the thought, he knew that it was no use. He could play out the entire conversation in his head: down to the merest eye roll. Articulating it to the most critical person Eric had ever met would just make him feel foolish, and Chuck would interpret it as some feeble call for help, would move almost imperceptibly in his seat, as if trying to create some distance from this emotional neediness.

The safer option was to wait ride out the next few days: wait for the inevitable phone call, in which Chuck would ask him out for drinks, or with some excuse that he needed the help of his _Friendly-Neighbourhood-Queen_ for a present for Blair. Eric would feel a flood of relief at the sound of Chuck's cool and even tone, before shrugging nonchalantly and suggesting that they grab a cappuccino before heading to Tiffany. Chuck would advocate something stronger than coffee, and they would settle on martinis and Manolo Blahnik.

It was only after the crackle of Chuck ending the call that Eric would sit down, trying to control the tell-tale shake of his hands, wishing once again that he wasn't so affected by everything, that for just one day he could enter the world with the armour that Chuck threw on like a mask. He would feel a burning in the back of his throat, and at the back of his eyeballs, which he would swallow bitterly. It was unnatural to be so sensitive, to experience emotions so intensely. There was something effeminate about it. He leant too heavily on those around him.

Sighing to himself, noticing the cycle of self-criticism that his psychiatrist had urged him to put a stop to, Eric decided to give himself a distraction. That was what Dr. Selwyn had advised him to do, her silver bob haircut moving decisively with each nod. He was to identify the cognition behind each emotion: he was to try to identify the thought patterns that led to his barely contained self-loathing. He was to rationalize, and amend his response, so that he not react too greatly to life's vicissitudes.

"_You're a sensitive boy. Don't make a face – it's true. There's nothing wrong with it. The only thing we have to do is find a way to stop you from living and dying with every success and defeat."_

It was one of life's ironies: he was so good at analysing other people's problems. And yet he was an absolute slave to the pull of his own responses. It made him slow to wander outside his comfort area, fearful of the new suffering that may emerge from a new situation. And yet he loved too intensely, he felt things too clearly. That had been what scared Jonathon away. When he gave himself to someone, he gave every fibre of his being, without thought of protecting himself.

He had never understood the reluctance that Chuck and Blair had shown to the intensity of their bond at the beginning of their relationship. Both of them distrusted it, neither of them liked the feeling of hungering after another person, of being incomplete without your lover by your side. And so they had been woefully unprepared when they had fallen for each other. Even now, they viewed their relationship as something forceful and distressing: they gave into it – fully, but with a sense that it had been too strong for them, that they had failed in beating it off.

For his part, Eric would have done anything for a love like that. There were times when he felt as if he were brimming with affection, and yet for some reason, he had been denied the gift that Blair and Chuck had found in each other. And right before his eyes, even his own mother had begun the painstaking process of opening herself up to the love her life.

Eric would have been so good at loving someone that way, and yet he would never begrudge Chuck or Lily the chance at happiness.

This was not helping, he realized, exhaling the air through his teeth and sitting at his desk. There was only one thing that would distract him, and it was in fact the true reason he had been so insistent that Chuck give his father another chance. After all, at least Chuck _had _a father, flawed and confused as he might be. It would take no more than a cab downtown to see Jack, should Chuck ever feel inclined.

Glancing around, with an almost guilty expression on his face, Eric unlocked his desk drawer, pulling out the professionally bound report that he had taken two trains in order to secure. He had already read it, five times. And yet with each reading, Eric felt his resolve slipping slightly, felt the familiar tug that came right before he hurtled himself into a situation that might so easily end in heartbreak. Still, he felt the familiar swoop of anticipation when he read the title:

_NATIONWIDE INVESTIGATION REPORT: WILLIAM VAN DER WOODSEN_.

*

"I've been meaning to ask you," Eleanor said, flatly over coffee in the pristine waiting room of her new oncologist. "Shouldn't you be at school?"

There was a brief pause as Chuck took the measure of her tone. Detecting only curiosity and not some ill-fated attempt to encourage him to take his studies more seriously, he raised an aristocratic hand to his face and examined his nails. If he had been anyone else, the gesture would have appeared affected and embarrassing. On Chuck, it was quietly disdainful.

"I decided to take a leave of absence," he said flatly. "Although I'm sure the cheerleading squad really misses my exceptional ability with the pompoms."

Eleanor turned the page of _Vogue_, allowing the glossy sheet to scrape against her severe black coat with the white lining. "I hope that you're not taking time off out of some misguided sense of duty to me."

Chuck shot her a puzzled look. A part of him was tempted to offer some snide remark about how it was a mere coincidence. Perhaps she had forgotten that curt text message that had impacted upon him so greatly in the library. Perhaps he was wrong in his estimation of Eleanor. Perhaps she resented his attempts at supporting her through this.

But, taking in the proud curve of her eyebrows and the prim way she crossed her legs on the seat, Chuck was struck for the first time by the startling resemblance between Blair and Eleanor. It had been built into the mythology of the Waldorf family that Blair and her father were carbon copies, and yet, Chuck saw much of Blair's own bearing in Eleanor's much taller frame. There was the same pride in her features, a sense not only of beauty, but more off a barely contained strength of personality. Blair had a tendency of masking it – of softening herself – but Eleanor wore it naturally.

"I'll go back, I imagine," Chuck said disinterestedly, throwing _GQ _back onto the stack of magazines, uncertain why he had even picked it up in the first place. "But it was easy to walk away. College was never my dream. Not like it is for Blair."

"I never wanted to set foot in the place, myself," Eleanor commented. "But from the moment Blair was born, I knew that she was destined for it. There was no other option."

"After seventeen years of Yale t-shirts, I imagine not," Chuck commented neutrally. He was never so careful with his speech with anyone other than Blair's mother. Even with Harold, they had reached a point at which blunt and unfettered candour was required. From the moment Chuck had told him about Aaron's attempted assault of Blair, they had come to a tacit understanding that theirs would be an alliance based on no-frills honesty. They both preferred it that way. It was businesslike and reassuring.

But his relationship with Eleanor, who was, besides Chuck, the closest person to Blair, who knew her in a way that a friend or colleague, or even Chuck, couldn't. She was, he knew, the root cause of those aspects of Blair that most terrified him. Those ambitions that had been set upon her from the day of her conception, that insatiable need to advance, to rule. All those things were a product of Eleanor's training.

"Blair picked the first one herself, Charles. So if you're insinuating that I programmed the dream into her, you're quite mistaking. What do you think is taking so long?"

"Dr Wong is the best oncologist in New York," Chuck shrugged. "He's busy."

"Are you waiting for a written thank you card for setting up the appointment?" Eleanor asked in an infuriatingly snippy tone. Blair had used that voice on him before.

Chuck gritted his teeth. "How about instead of thanking me, you call your daughter and tell her what's going on?"

"We still don't know…"

"Eleanor," Chuck said flatly. "We know. Dr. Giurelli indicated it was a matter of _when _you start chemo, rather than _if_ you start."

"Forgive me if I'm not racing out to give Blair the news that her mother is on her death bed."

It was cruel of Eleanor to claim the moral high ground. Chuck found himself marvelling at Blair's resilience, living with a woman as impossible as this for her entire adolescence. Although, Chuck had to admit that it was probably good training for living with him.

"Please," he said in the flat, disaffected voice that seemed to work best on Eleanor. "If you were so eager to spare Blair that particular horror, you'd stop messing around and start listening to your doctors' advice."

For a moment, Eleanor sat frozen in the chair and Chuck allowed himself to entertain the possibility that he had finally reached her. Of course, the moment passed and Eleanor mastered her features before arranging them into a blank expression. Even through his annoyance, Chuck felt a swoop of admiration for the woman. He had never met anyone as good at hiding her emotions as Eleanor Waldorf.

"What do you think about crimson lipstick and smoky eyes for the Winter collection?" she asked casually, angling her magazine towards him.

Chuck smiled blandly, holding her eyes and not even glancing at the waif-like model she was brandishing at him. "I think it's great," he said. "If your models are whores going to the opera."

"Mrs. Waldorf-Rose?"

Eleanor glanced at the nurse, before throwing _Vogue _on the previously immaculate stack of magazines. Without saying a word to Chuck, Eleanor stood up and stood stony-faced next to the woman, who cast a puzzled look in Chuck's direction.

"And you are?"

"Waiting in the lobby, apparently," Chuck commented, catching sight of Eleanor's face. As the women turned to walk down the hallway, Chuck called after them, in an over-stated stage whisper. "Make sure you have the garlic and crucifixes ready."

Eleanor turned around and threw him a filthy look before flouncing off. When she was out of sight, Chuck sighed heavily and fell back on his chair, picking at the loose threads. She had to be the most insufferable, difficult woman that he had ever come across. So of course, Chuck couldn't help but enjoy her company. As he sat in the chair, fiddling with the keypad of his phone, he allowed his thoughts to turn to Blair.

He had always been interested in the dynamic between Eleanor and Blair, although it was only since he passed two months travelling with her, that Blair had truly opened up about her views of her mother.

They had spent a night camping in the Gobi Desert, a space of complete and utter barrenness that stretched from the Altai Mountains on the north to the Hexi Corridor on the south. It had been an inconvenience, really. They had been passing through, wanting to get as close as possible to Tibet, after leaving China. Of course, they hadn't been able to cross the border, so they had found themselves in Mongolia, with absolutely nothing to do.

It had been a change from their previous trip plan, which had been characterised by the driving ambition to bear witness to those people who had no power to affect change. For some reason, they had both been drawn to places defined by a community, some shared ideal or mutual suffering. The extreme opposite to their experience of New York, which had become so driven by a cult-ish emphasis on the individual.

"What do you say to spending some time alone?" Chuck had whispered, coming up behind Blair as she sent an email to Lily. She tried to close her lap top before he could see that she was sending a photograph of the two of them standing on a beach in Phuket. She had the strangest perception that he would think she was foolish whenever she did something typically "touristy". He wasn't sure why that was, seeing it had been he who had insisted that she stand next to the Taj Mahal as he took photographs from every angle he could find.

Blair had pulled her hair into a loose bun, casting him a confused look, casting a mock-horrified look about their hotel room. "Are you telling me there's been someone else in the room with us this whole time?"

"If so, he would have gotten quite a show in the shower half an hour ago," Chuck commented, before leaning over her shoulder and typing in a few words into _Google_. "But I mean, really alone. Just you, me, a sherpa – and the night sky."

"The Gobi Desert," Blair read, uncertainly. "I don't know Chuck. You're a terrible camper."

"I'm an amazing camper," he commented lazily, slipping behind her and running his hands over the plane of her stomach.

"Nate told me that the one time you and he went camping, you made him pitch the tent, pulled out 600 thread count sheets, and proceeded to complain all night about a rock that was digging into your back."

"It was uncomfortable," he said in a strained voice as Blair's fingers drew luxurious circles on the insides of his knees.

"You were on a camp-bed," she retorted.

"I also did some impressive, manly things that Nate didn't want to mention."

"Like scream bloody-murder at the sound of a stick breaking?"

"It was a gunshot," Chuck said irritably. "Besides, camping would be different with you. And besides…"

"What?" she asked when he trailed off.

"I want to see a horizon that goes on forever. And I want to see it with you."

The very next morning, they had clambered into a four-wheel drive that would have made Al Gore cringe and drove out into an expanse of dry nothingness that had indeed seemed to stretch forever.

Never before had they known such quietness and space. It was as if they were standing on the surface of the moon. And yet, with every minute that passed, Chuck became aware that there was life all around him.

That night, as the temperature dropped suddenly and without warning, they tried to sleep in their small tent. Out of deference to their desire for privacy, the sherpa-cum-guide that had driven them to this place and showed them around the desert, had driven over a large dune and set up his own camp out of their eye-line.

"Are you awake?" Blair whispered.

"Of course. It's too fucking quiet to sleep."

"Good," with that, he saw her outline slip out of the tent. Following her, into the surprisingly cool night, Chuck took a moment to realize that the entire place was lit by the stars and endless sky that curved above them.

Blair was already ahead of him, climbing a low slope that would expose only more vast expanses of desert. She looked so mysterious dressed all in white, under the too-bright moon. Even carrying her sleeping bag, she seemed ethereal under the moonlight. And for a moment, Chuck felt an insane panic that she might suddenly disappear.

She was the only person he would be willing to follow.

They sat down on the cool sand, wrapped to the waste in their sleeping bags, looking out over the flat, low sheets of desolation that spread before them.

"I can't decide if I like it," Blair mused, leaning against his chest. "It's so flat and dry. It looks lifeless." He said nothing, enjoying the feeling of looking over her shoulder, as if he were looking through her eyes. "It's better at night, don't you think? You can hear things moving. And the plants come out. It's like being part of something."

She turned to look at his face, perhaps checking to make sure that he was listening.

"It's beautiful, really. But it could kill you. All it would take was us walking too far, away from our guide. And we'd be tomorrow's headline. I'd probably be the 'also dead'." [1]

"What are you talking about?" Chuck asked, wishing that she could stop allowing death to intrude on them.

"'_Chuck Bass Perishes In Desert. Girlfriend Also Dead_.'"

"Blair," he protested.

"It's true," she continued, taken away by the morbid fascination of it. "And they'd have to check the spelling of my name. I wonder what picture they'd use."

"Blair, can you stop talking about this?" he pulled away from her.

"It's reality," she shrugged, reaching out to placate him. "My dying is not quite as newsworthy as your passing…"

"Just stop _fucking_ talking about it," Chuck snapped, suddenly furious at her. To emphasise his point, he stood up and walked down the slope a few metres, turning his back on her.

"Chuck," she said, with a hint of surprise, standing up to follow him. "I was only joking."

"And this is me laughing hysterically," he said flatly, as she came to the side of him, trying to force her hand between his crossed arms. Finally, she gave up, and stood next to him, mirroring his pose.

"It reminds me of my mother," she said contemplatively. "Beautiful and remote; full of extremes. Just like her, to hide the life in her – to wear a mask that stretches for miles."

"Sounds like you," Chuck said, softening after her jokes about their deaths. "At least, how you were before."

He didn't need to finish the sentence with: _before you fell in love with me._ They both knew that it was implicit.

"It's how she would have liked me to be," Blair said with a hint of sadness. "She's like Miss Havershim, in _Great Expectations._ She'd have liked to be able to forge me into something beautiful. Like one of her designs."

Chuck had seen Eleanor at parties, staring at Blair as she hung off Nate's arm, unaware of the thin and approving smile that crossed her face at the sight. Eleanor was hung up on Blair's beauty, her gestures, and she watched her as if she were devouring the beautiful creature she reared.[2] That Blair was a thing of beauty was never in question, but it seemed that in every other way, Blair failed to live up to the standard that Eleanor had devised for her.

"I've never been a huge fan of your mother's designs," Chuck commented with a sly grin. "I hated that dress you wore to Victrola."

"Chuck!" Blair exclaimed in mock outrage.

"What," he shrugged, as she hit his arm lightly. "I much preferred what was underneath it." He glanced over at her, looking so relieved that he had begun speaking to her once more. It had been a silly resentment, really – but he bitterly hated any reference to the idea that they might be mortal, like any other person on earth. The very notion that death would one day take both of them was distasteful to him. That she had been able to make light of it seemed like an insult. And Chuck Bass could never abide an insult.

"I suppose that's quite sweet, in a pervy, _Chuck Bass_ kind of way," Blair mused.

Chuck took a step towards her, feeling predatory under the night sky and surrounded by the night cries of creatures that had been invisible during the day. As if she were responding to the primal way he was looking at her, she shivered. Without breaking eye contact, he pressed her body to his, lifting her off the ground. Almost reflexively, her legs wrapped around his waist, so that he was carrying

"And anyone who imagines that you're anything less than Eleanor Waldorf's most astounding creation is completely insane," he whispered into her ear and carrying her down the slope.

As they fell into their tent, tugging at those clothes that formed an unwelcome barrier between their skins and Blair's cries grew louder, Chuck grinned to himself, thinking about their sherpa over the incline, who was still very much in earshot.

The next morning, the man had blushed crimson when Blair thanked him for helping her with her bag, unable to meet her eyes.

"What's that about?"

"I have no idea," he smirked innocently.

*

To this minute, Dan wasn't entirely sure how he had been dragged into this ridiculous plan. He found himself scuffing his feet on the train platform, half-reading the copy of the _Yale Daily News_ that had blown around his ankles.

"Did you even check what time the train arrives?" he asked petulantly, wishing that he had brought a coffee to warm his hands in the early morning frost.

"They come at specific times?" Blair asked, frowning.

"Worst. Plan. Ever," Dan muttered to himself, craning his head to read the student newspaper, before noticing to his dismay that Harvard had absolutely destroyed the Yale football team the day before. He would have liked to be with his friends, watching the bonfire – or at least mocking it from the sidelines with the furrowed brow of an intellectual-in-training. At this point, anything would be better than sitting on this train platform, waiting for the next train that would take them to New Jersey.

"You were the one who thought I should go see him," Blair said stubbornly, looking strangely peaked and pale – making it hard to be mad at her.

"I meant that you should send for Chuck's helicopter and have it deliver you to the top turret of a castle so you can enact some sickening display of undying love…far, far from me."

She almost looked amused. "Do you even listen to the rubbish you blurt out, Humphrey?"

"Look, maybe we should do this another day, when we know a train will be arriving - "

At that moment, a rickety train pulled in to the station. He waited for Blair to offer him one of her patented, smug smiles. But instead, she looked at the ground. "I really appreciate you coming with me."

After that, he had no choice but to follow her onto the train. As he made himself comfortable, opening the thick book on Literary Theory he had borrowed from the library, he glanced at her as she stared blankly out of the window.

"I still don't know why you wanted me to come with you."

For a moment, it seemed as if she hadn't heard him, so absent and far-off was her gaze. He was about to ask the question again, when she spoke.

"I wanted a friend to be with me," she said, almost coolly. "If it turns out…"

"Turns out, what?"

"That the only thing he's hiding from me is the fact he wants to break up with me."

Dan felt his heart constrict tightly. "I really don't think that's what this is, Blair."

She sniffed, before resting her hand flat across her mouth, leaning her elbow on the arm-rest. "We'll see," she muttered, her voice muffled by her hand as she stared glumly out the window.

It seemed that they would not be speaking during the train ride to Princeton. Dan watched her profile, thoughtfully. He never had called Chuck after walking into Blair's room to find her falling apart completely. He hadn't quite known how to put into words what he had seen in there: how to convey the horror he felt at the sight of meticulous Blair Waldorf surrounded by junk. Having promised her that he wouldn't mention her obsessive worry about her relationship with Chuck, there seemed very little he could actually say to the boy, short of telling him to get his ass to Yale. Judging by the sound of Chuck on the phone, and the reports that Blair had given of the pair's interaction since the end of summer, something was happening in Chuck's life that was too big for him to handle. Something he needed to hide from Blair.

Maybe it was a love child, Dan mused. That would certainly qualify as something Chuck would want to keep from her. But, it didn't seem likely that some woman would come forward, after at least a year had elapsed, to tell Chuck that she was bearing his illegitimate child. Surely, any woman impregnated by a man with the last name "Bass" would have come forward, hand outstretched for money the moment she learnt about her pregnancy.

No, it had to be something more subtle and threatening than that. When Chuck was concerned, anything was possible. It wouldn't do to speculate. So, Dan continued studying his book about Aesthetic Ideology, until the rumbling in his stomach became too distracting.

He glanced at Blair. Rugged up as she was in her winter coat, it was difficult to see how thin she was. "Do you want something from the food carriage?"

"I'm not hungry," she said flatly, continuing her focused examination of the scenery that whipped passed the train window.

"Okay. Cool. Good chat," Dan muttered as he tripped over the arm of his seat, stumbling out of Blair's stony presence.

That was the extent of their conversation until they arrived in New Jersey. Alighting at Princeton Junction, Dan followed behind Blair, as she purposefully strode to a single-car train, that he assumed would take them to Princeton Station.

"It's called a 'dinky'," Blair said suddenly, breaking the silence. "I researched the trains a lot when I thought I'd be spending my time commuting between Yale and Princeton."

Dan pushed passed the hint of bitterness in her voice, frowning. "That's a pretty stupid name."

"Because students at Yale can really comment. Seen the Whiffenpoofs perform recently?" Blair asked, rolling her eyes.

Dan would have responded, had he not been heartened by the fact that she was displaying at least a measure of her old feistiness.

The soil at Princeton was frozen, and each step they took was accompanied by a satisfying crunch. Dan found it visually satisfying to see that Princeton was as majestic as he had imagined; the thought of Chuck walking among these old buildings was perfectly in fitting with the way that Dan liked to conceive of him in his writing. Of course, there was something strange about imagining Chuck outside of the context of the New York skyline.

Dan found himself reconsidering the place, imagining Chuck walking through the grounds. Perhaps in a different era, this would have been the perfect place for him. But now, Princeton seemed to be much the same as Yale; populated by pseudo-intellects and the offspring of wealth, who desperately wanted to fit in with the pseudo-intellects. Black clothing or jeans paired with t-shirts were _de rigueur_. And standing out against them in his suits and bow ties, Chuck must have appeared less darkly sophisticated and more comical.[3]

Of course, one look at his fierce and arrogant face, and the laughter would have died in his classmates' throats. That was something that Blair seemed to have lost. The imperiousness that could only be fully realized when both of them were together: a perfect match, rendered imperfect by the tyranny of distance.

"How are we going to find Chuck's room?"

Blair cocked her head to the side thoughtfully. "Well I thought we could trail some people, find the central administration office. And then, you can make some kind of distraction while I sneak into the back and look up on their computers where his dorm room is. Of course, I'll probably have to hack into the mainframe to do it, which is a small contravention of federal law. But hey – I've got the will and the pantyhose to carry it off."

Dan blinked at her. "I'm detecting a near-lethal dose of sarcasm."

"I know his address, Humphrey. I am his girlfriend, after all. At least, last time I checked."

Dan decided not to start a fight over the issue, and so he merely shrugged and gestured for her to lead the way.

"Do you want me to come with you to his room…or should I, you know, hide down the hall. You can give me a signal if you want back-up."

"What's the matter, Humphrey? Are you worried that at the sight of me he won't be able to refrain from ripping his clothes off and taking me on the hallway floor?"

"Well, judging by precedent…" Dan muttered.

"I'll try to restrain him," she dead-panned. "Besides. I need a witness standing next to me so that I don't give in to my impulse to strangle him with his own belt."

"Well I'm just quivering with anticipation."

It was as if he were visited by some strange precognition, as they approached the door to Chuck's dorm, having gotten lost twice and asking five people for directions. It was the same impulse as had visited Dan just before he knocked on Blair's door: as if the light in the hallway had contracted into a fine point, directing him towards the wood panelling of her door, filling it with significance. There was something surreal about the scene, as Blair took a deep breath and knocked on the hard surface of the door. It was strange to see Blair knocking to gain admission to Chuck's inner sanctum. That was probably the reason that Dan wasn't surprised when the door opened of its own accord: it's bolt pressed inward to prevent it from swinging shut.

The bed was pristine: stripped down to the mattress. There was no hint of Chuck's presence in the place, although a few boxes littered the room, with arrows pointing upwards and sporting words like "_books_" and "_personal_". The handwriting was not Chuck's; it was too neat and clear. It was probably the handwriting of a proud parent sending their son or daughter off to college. Dan found it suddenly hard to breath in this cramped space. One glance at Blair's face, her mouth a thin line, told him that she was just as shocked as he was.

"Maybe we've got the wrong room."

"We haven't got the wrong room," she said flatly, before pulling out her mobile telephone.

Dan said nothing as she narrowed her eyes at the bed. When Chuck answered, Dan was amazed at the breezy lightness of her voice. She really was a consummate actress when it suited her.

"Nothing's wrong," she said, her warm voice contrasting with her cool voice. "Are you at school?"

Dan heard the muffled sound of Chuck's voice, although he couldn't make out what he was saying. "In bed? Thinking about me, I hope."

He frowned at her, crossing his arms, wanting to convey with his very bearing that he did not approve of her treachery. But, of course, Blair ignored him, continuing the one-sided conversation in that flirtatious voice, with hard eyes.

"Listen, I just got an email from Lily. I don't want to ruin the surprise, but she wants to send some care package to you at Princeton. And it suddenly occurred to me that I've never mailed anything to you. So I just wanted to double check that it was Room 101 in Mathey College - " Blair glanced pointedly at the open door, with "101" clearly printed on it. " - That's right, isn't it? Oh right – well if there have been screw-ups in the past, then maybe it's better she doesn't send anything. No, no – she'll know I talked to you. I'll just say that last time I sent you something it didn't get to you. Okay, I'd better go – I've go class. You know me to well. Bye."

She snapped the phone shut.

"We don't know what this means," Dan started, but she cut him off by stalking from the room.

As they walked down the hall, they ran into a father and son struggling with a futon. This must be the boy who was taking Chuck's room. Dan offered them a tight smile, struggling to keep pace with Blair. It was not until they emerged into the brisk air, that Blair stopped dead, her cheeks pink.

"We know that he lied to me on the phone. We know he's been lying to me this whole time."

Dan cast about in his mind for something to say: unused to being lost for words. Uncomfortable with the feeling of wanting to defend Chuck. Unable to think of a thing that would comfort her, he sighed.

"Come on. Let's get on that dinky thing and go back to Yale."

As they walked back to the station, Blair caught sight of a girl, standing at a coffee stand, hand-in-hand with a boy dressed all in white. She was carrying a thick book in her hand, throwing her head back and laughing at something that one of her friends had said. There was nothing about the girl's face that was beautiful, and she wore those canvas shoes that so offended Blair when she saw them on the feet of the girls at Yale. She was at most a handsome girl, and her boyfriend had a weak chin.

It should have been she and Chuck standing there, enjoying the blue sky and the cool air. Why did this couple get to stand next to each other, when she and Chuck could barely sustain a telephone conversation? What right did this plain couple have to be happy, when she was young and beautiful and coming unravelled, with a boyfriend who would never relinquish his tight hold on his secrets.

"Are you okay?" Dan asked carefully, as they settled down in the bucket seats of the dinky.

"Yes," she said in a strange, hard voice.

"You should talk to Chuck," Dan reasoned. "If he's dropped out of college, then something's up. Maybe he's too proud to tell you what it is. If you tell him that you know already, it might be easier for him to open up."

Blair shot him a look. "Have you ever known Chuck Bass to open up?"

Dan swallowed thickly. "Only to you."

She didn't respond, once more staring out the window, leaving Dan alone with his thoughts and worries for Chuck, his enemy-turned-friend, who had never been capable of asking anyone for help.

*

Vanessa had known, when she left Dan in search of herself, that he would never forgive her.

It sounded so melodramatic to put it that way, but she knew it with the certainty she had that if she dropped a glass it would shatter. Dan was so simple when it came to love, such an idealist. Although he claimed to understand her need to find a space away from him where she could be herself, he really hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about. She became no more than another in a string of women who had let him down and deserted him.

She knew him better than anyone, had been his friend back when the idea of being friends with a boy was disgusting to most girls, when they both had braces. He had watched as her family disintegrated, and he told her he loved her back when neither of them had known what that meant.

She had run from him, that first time. Her mother and father had been done no more than pass by each other, so that by the time Vanessa was six years old, her entire family consisted of the three of them: Vanessa, her sister Ruby, and her beloved father, Steven.

Although it would have surprised her friends, who relied on her for her clear-sightedness and insight, it was Ruby who was the strong one. Maybe that was why Vanessa and her father enjoyed such an intense, personal connexion. They both felt guilty about this closeness; the tiny ways that their affection for each other excluded Ruby. And so, Vanessa and her father loved and obeyed and comforted each other in secret.

Really, all three of them loved and comforted each other. They were poorish and lonely and awkward together, but love had never been in question. [4]

That morning, Vanessa awoke to find herself being suffocated by a stranger's arm. The evening came back to her in pieces. There had been Jell-O shots involved, she remembered as she lifted the hairy arm from around her waist and slid out of the sweaty sheets she and the nameless boy had fallen into the night before. Glancing at him and grimacing as she pulled on her clothes, she saw that she had not dreamed his goatee.

She was gathering up the last of her belongings, feeling a swoop of victory at her deft avoidance of an awkward morning-after discussion before her walk of shame back to her dorm-room on the other side of the campus.

"You don't have to sneak out," he said suddenly.

She guilty turned around to see that his eyes had opened. They were nice eyes. Perhaps she had been too hasty to dismiss him. Perhaps those eyes had some potential. It was then that she noticed the Bob Marley poster than hung on the wall. No. She had been right to dismiss him.

"I've got an early class," Vanessa improvised awkwardly. "But…it was…you know, nice to meet you."

With that, she ran from the room. The air was turning crisp, and soon enough the maple leaves would cover the grounds of NYU. And to think, the thrill of being here on this campus, of sitting in the film labs for hours at a time had yet to wear off. It was humbling, really, to find that a dream that had been so tantalizing over the years, that had sustained her while she studied and worked to pay her rent, was even better in reality.

It was an underrated thrill: to truly earn something that you wanted desperately. And yet, Vanessa had never had it better. She didn't have a lot of money, but for the first time since she left her father's house, she had meals prepared for her and time as a patron in the café, rather than a waitress. Pulling her jacket closer around her, she felt the mortification of last night's mistake wear off, and began planning the substance of her day.

"You're awfully dressed up for seven in the morning," an amused voice commented as she searched for her key. "Unless I just caught you on the tail-end of a walk of shame."

"Chuck," Vanessa gasped.

"As you live and breathe," he drawled in response, leaning against the wall next to her dorm room.

Vanessa shook her head, taking a step towards him. "I want to hug you, but I don't want you to freak out on me."

He chuckled. "I think I can handle it."

She wrapped him in a quick embrace, knowing that in spite of his bravado, he would never be comfortable with these demonstrations of affection that were thrust upon him. When she pulled back to look at his face, she noticed that his eyes were red and dry. There were dark, angry bruises under his eyes, hinting at long and sleepless nights. His hair was too long, and it hadn't been brushed. Although he still wore one of his extravagant suits, Vanessa could see that something was off about him. She had always been alert to the changes in Chuck's bearing – like the seismic shift that occurred whenever Blair was near him.

"Chuck is everything okay?"

For a moment, Chuck's carefully controlled features seemed to ripple. Vanessa felt a swoop of panic; if the burden that Chuck was carrying was enough to make him lose his tight hold upon himself, then it had to be something terrifying.

"I think I'm losing Blair," he said softly, studying his shoes. "And I don't know how to stop it."

Vanessa should have known that the strange changes in his appearance had something to do with Blair. Sighing to herself, Vanessa unlocked her door. It seemed like those plans she had formed about her day on the walk over here were to be scrapped. She could see from his face that he was working against his every instinct in coming to her for help. If it had been anything less important to him than Blair, he never would have considered it for a moment.

"Why don't you come in and we can talk about it?"

If she had been expecting a grateful smile, then she would have been disappointed. All he did, when she held open the door and invited him back into her life was shrug nonchalantly before crossing the threshold with a sense of unwillingness – as if he were doing her a grand favour in entering. It was Chuck Bass, down to the finest detail, and Vanessa couldn't contain her eye-roll when he looked around her room, covered in film posters and figurines from her favourite foreign movies.

Picking up a miniature Godzilla, Chuck raised an eyebrow at her, before sitting in the low chair that was covered in a _Hello Kitty _throw-rug. "Did a tacky Japanese horror movie throw up in your dorm room?"

"No," she retorted. "Did you steal that suit from coke-snorting eighties stock broker?"

With that, they exchanged a tentative smile. She hadn't realized it until this very moment, but she had really missed the asshole.

"Now," she said imperiously. "Tell me about Blair."

*

[1] I'm fairly sure this is Donna in _The West Wing._

[2] Charles Dickens, _Great Expectations._

[3] Based on a passage from Donna Tartt's_ The Secret History_.

[4] Iris Murdoch, _The Sea, The Sea_.

A/N: Thank you all for re-reading this re-upload! I hope you are enjoying it. The responses to my PDF offer were so overwhelming that I decided to put everything back up to save myself from getting RSI! One thing I mentioned in my other story, _The Yellow Wood_ is that I am feeling newly inspired and may add some chapters to _Lightness and Weight_. In honesty, I always imagined the _Unbearable Lightness_ stories to be a trilogy. Anyway, just something I'm toying with.


	4. Chapter 4: With Ordinariness

A/N: The re-upload continues. And I'm also considering adding some new chapters to _Lightness and Weight…_apart from working on _The Yellow Wood._

*

**Chapter Four: **With Ordinariness and Tiredness and Silence

"…_When I read your letter I cried and cried. I wonder if you know how long it is since you wrote me anything better than a postcard? I almost feel as if I simply want to be happy ever after because you have written to me, and not to have to _think_ about your letter or to answer it. For now I am falling into anxiety and dread. What do you want, Charles? Oh you are so present to my mind as I write. But you have always been present to my mind ever since I first loved you, you live in my mind. Something about your letter that made me especially glad is that you do not doubt that I still love you. "Still" hardly has meaning here. My love for you exists in a sort of eternal present, it is almost the meaning of time. I don't protest too much. Such love can live with despair, with quietness, with resignation, with ordinariness and tiredness and silence. I love you, Charles, and I will love you till I die, and you can put that away in your heart and be utterly certain of it..._"

Iris Murdoch, "The Sea, The Sea"

*

Blair's roommate was a strange and quiet girl named Melinda, who had deep-set eyes and the sort of dreary, frizzy hair that will never be fully tamed. She seemed somehow insubstantial, scarcely inhabiting her own room, let alone the shared space of their common living area. Had Blair been able to lift her glum eyes and take in the world around her, the deep aesthetic tendency within her would have demanded that Melinda have an immediate makeover. As it stood, they inhabited their own spaces quite happily, both preferring to be alone.

For the most part, Blair scarcely cast a thought to Melinda, who seemed to scurry nervously from place to place, as if she was nervous that spending too much time in one place would lead to some sort of unforeseen disaster.

"You play the cello," Blair had said, feigning interest as the girl lugged a large musical case behind her.

Melinda blinked at her in surprise. "I…uh…yeah. I suppose."

"You suppose?" Blair asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I do," Melinda amended nervously. "I have a scholarship. To Yale. For music."

After that thrilling exchange, Blair decided that it would be best to consider Melinda like she would have a pet: present and harmless for the most part, but not particularly interesting or worthy of conversation. Although Blair was prone to enormous self-criticism, the cause of her frustration was her own sense of her unbounded potential; she had never considered herself ordinary. Taking in Melinda's mousy hair and blinking eyes, and the way she wore the most untailored acid wash jeans, Blair was struck by the astounding _ordinariness_ of the girl who Yale had assigned to her. And Blair had never been able to tolerate the ordinary.

Of course, that had been until she had heard Melinda play the cello.

For the most part, she seemed to practice in the recesses of the Faculty of Music, disappearing for hours at a time. In one of their stilted, passing conversations, Melinda had indicated that she had an important concert approaching, and that she would rarely be in the dorms. This announcement had suited Blair perfectly and she had spared the girl little thought all week.

Blair had been dreaming in colours and sounds, without any discernable narrative. And yet, for some reason, Blair awoke flushed and gasping, with tears forming in the corner of her eyes. Because during the night, it seemed as if she had passed into the land of the dead. There had been only flickering visions of people who had departed: her paternal grandmother, who had died when she was very young, Kati's sweet younger brother who had died when the family was skiing in Aspen, and even Bart and Constance Bass appeared, weightless and ethereal and as cold as ice.

It was fitting somehow, to find that even the waking world had been overcome by haunting and beautiful music. For a moment, rather stupidly, Blair had no idea who could be playing Bach's "Air on a G String". (With a faint smile, Blair recalled how it had always been Chuck's favourite song. "Any piece of music which involves a g-string is okay by me."). All she could think was that she simply had to find the source of the sound, so remarkable and heartbreaking that it caused those tears that had stubbornly refused to fall during her dream to trail down her cheeks.

Cracking open her bedroom door, Blair found Melinda sitting on a low seat, facing the window, and holding a beautiful old cello as if it were a cherished lover. Her eyes were tightly shut, and for a moment, Blair fancied as if the girl had become quite beautiful. But, she quickly noted that nothing in Melinda's bearing had changed. But it couldn't have mattered less that she was poorly dressed and needed to visit the hairdresser. It didn't matter that her chin was rather weak, and that she would never be the sort of woman who men would turn back to look at as they strode down the street.

It didn't matter because when she played the cello, she was transported. And what was even more staggering was that she took her audience's hand and led them to the same place.

For an insane moment, Blair would have done anything to slip out her skin and take Melinda's place. Because despite her exceptional grades at school and her near-mania for extra-curricular activities at Constance, there had never been anything that Blair was exceptionally good at: she had never had a passion. Dan had his writing and Vanessa had her video camera. Serena was constantly taking up new hobbies and activities depending on her mood and Nate had the staggering ability to excel at any sport he chose. Even Chuck, who had never been known to be someone to maintain an interest longer than fifteen minutes (and that had once included women), had been terrorized by Bart into learning the piano.

Blair remembered vividly the first time she had seen him play. They had been slowly dying of boredom at a benefit at one of Bart's hotels, and so the entire Non-Judging Breakfast Club had squandered some champagne and set up shop in a parlour room down the hall. Serena and Nate immediately sat down, accepting champagne gratefully when Chuck popped the cork with theatrical flourish. Chuck had seemed strangely chipper, and Blair could have sworn that more than once, his eyes had travelled over her body with a strangely hooded look.

It had made Blair walk differently, knowing that he was watching her. To see herself reflected in his dark eyes, even then, was somehow intoxicating. And although she would never have admitted it, she added extra sway to her walk as she perused the books that lined the shelves and paused before the beautiful grand piano in the centre of the room. Peering from the corner of her eye, she saw that Chuck had settled himself on the sill of the large bay window, smoking a cigarette, smirking ironically at the "no smoking" sign that had been affixed to the wall at the entrance to the room. It was strange for him to be shrouded by the light of the window; Blair had always associated him with dark spaces. He had rolled up his sleeves, and with the grey smoke of his cigarette twisting into different shapes, Blair noticed that he was also staring at the piano.

"It's so beautiful," she said wistfully. "I wish I knew how to play."

"I could teach you," Chuck said suddenly, in a low and serious voice. His voice had been so different, so solemn and out of place, that even Nate and Serena had turned around to regard him. But Chuck ignored them, instead looking at Blair with a hint of challenge.

Serena snorted. "Yeah, right. Chuck Bass playing the piano?"

Without looking at Serena, Chuck ground his cigarette into a crystal ashtray that was undoubtedly intended for decoration rather than use, before marching over to the piano. He was so purposeful that Blair had taken a few steps backwards to give him room. But, when he sat down on the wide seat, he looked back at her, raising an eyebrow and gesturing to the space to his right. "Well?"

Stealing a glance at Nate, and noting that he seemed to have no problem with what Chuck was suggesting, Blair sat down next to him at the piano, feeling the strange heat that seemed to emanate from his arm by her side.

"Are you going to play "chopsticks" for us?" Serena teased.

Neither of them bothered to acknowledge her, and in a moment the mood of the room had shifted so completely that any hint of laughter would have been an unbearable affront. As Chuck lifted his hands over the keyboard, Blair noticed how elegant his wrists were, and took in his long fingers.

It was strange how under his hands, the piano ceased being a collection of ivory keys, and instead became a song of aching melancholy. It was a piece by Satie, "Gnossiennes No. 1", and at first, the quiet and teasing high notes threw Blair. There was something so gentle and thoughtful about the sounds, the way the notes interacted with each other – and to hear them produced by a boy so prone to disgusting comments was truly staggering.

There was not a sound in the room, apart from the gathering strength of a song that seemed to be spun from melancholy. Every time his arm brushed against hers, Blair fancied as if it were the music itself touching her. It was haunting, really. When it finished, no one knew quite what to say. The moment he stopped playing, he stood back up, returned the window, and lit another cigarette, as if he hadn't been able to wait to finish and was relieved to get away from the piano.

Nate was of course the first to comment, finding it so easy to hand out compliments, and possessing the sort of unjealous nature that made him the perfect audience. "Wow, man. That was actually really awesome."

Serena shook her head at Chuck. "I think you pretty much put me back in my place."

Their praise seemed to mean nothing whatsoever to him; he gestured dismissively at their words, almost irritated by them. Taking in his irritated look, Blair closed the lid of the piano and stood up.

"I doubt I'd ever be able to play like that," she said dismissively, avoiding Chuck's eyes and pretending not to notice the way he glared moodily at the piano.

Blair still didn't quite know whether Chuck really enjoyed playing it; apparently, his mother had been an exceptionally accomplished pianist, and every time Chuck had sat on the piano stool, he seemed to lose himself in thought of the mother he had never known. It was only after they began dating that Chuck seemed to find some sort of enjoyment in the process of playing. During their time in Shanghai, Chuck had entertained an entire bar full of tourists by playing showy jazz songs with the band at an undergound club. He had been flushed – losing himself in the playful and defiant improvisations that Bart had never let him play. Watching the look on his face, and the admiring glances of all the women in the audience, Blair had been taken away by a strange, primal attraction to him – greater, even, than usual.

"I'm sorry I kind of neglected you tonight," Chuck said apologetically as Blair kissed his neck and he fumbled for the electronic key to their hotel room.

"I have never seen anything so sexy in my life," Blair breathed, tugging at his belt. "In fact, while you were playing there was only one thing I could think about…"

"Oh?" Chuck said in a tight voice. "And what was that?"

Blair leant close to his ear, letting her breath send a shiver of anticipation down his spine. "How much I wanted to suck you off."

As always, her crude phrasing made him gasp in arousal. And so there, in their darkened room, with a view over the skyline of Shanghai's Bund, Blair slowly and tantalisingly got onto her knees.

Of course, the look on Melinda's face was diametrically opposed to that sullen unwillingness that Chuck had once had to demonstrating his gift. She so clearly loved every moment that she played the cello, and she was so engrossed that she hadn't even noticed her roommate was watching her with tears streaming down her face.

A strange feeling came over Blair: a sort of dawning realization that there was something profoundly wrong with the life she was living. It was difficult to breathe, and Blair found that she couldn't spend another minute watching this strange, quiet girl and her passion. There was only one thing that Blair was truly passionate about: and at the moment, she had not seen him for almost two months.

"Blair," Melinda said in surprise, her eyes open and apologetic. "I'm sorry. Did I wake you? It's just…you know…the concert and everything. I can go and play somewhere else. Are you okay? You're…crying."

"No," Blair said in a strange, choked voice. "I'm fine. I have class."

"Oh you're going to class?" Melinda asked, inordinately pleased. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

In all honesty, Blair had only been pretending to be sick – sleeping until midday and skipping the majority of her classes. But faced by Melinda's plain face and her genuine smile, Blair felt another swoop of surrealism. It was not meant to be this way – her bland roommate was not meant to be smiling sympathetically at her and lauding her for attending classes that she had scarcely paid attention to.

"Yeah, well," Blair said lamely. "Good luck with the concert. You can practice here you know. It's fine. I don't mind. I like it."

Another surprised smile before Melinda's hands twitched and Blair realised that she was aching to return to her playing. And so, Blair excused herself, deciding that she might as well go to class after all.

Even as she sat down in the crowded lecture hall, surrounded by people laughing and chattering, Blair found the lingering impression of Melinda's haunting cello playing impossible to shake off. She had imagined, coming to Yale, that she would find inspiration here. And yet she sat in the middle of the room feeling utterly unmoved by everything around her.

"We return to our discussion of the Metaphysicals to Milton," the professor enthused as all around her, laptops were opened and notebooks flicked through.

For the first time in her life, Blair found herself completely out of her depth. It seemed that all those reading lists that she had so dutifully stacked on her desk had been positively devoured by her classmates. Uncertain about what was happening: where this was going and what the words coming from her classmate's mouths meant. The professor – whose name she couldn't quite recall – seemed amazingly animated. The chalkboard was covered in writing. The fierce intelligence of her classmates was plain to see. And once, it was all Blair had wanted to sit in this room in the university of her dreams.

"It reminds me of that line in Book One," said a serious-looking boy wearing Ray Ban glasses. "_To rain is worth ambition though in Hell: / Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven_."

For some reason, the words stayed with Blair, teasing her. Where had those ambitions to rule gone? It was possible to turn around her experience of Yale – it was only first semester. Surely everyone had trouble adjusting. Perhaps she could reach a point where she ruled Yale with the same intensity that she had ruled Constance. But, even as the though formed, Blair realized that the idea held no appeal to her. Nothing, really, was capable of eliciting even the slightest interest. In order to become the "Queen" of Yale – if such a thing were possible – would involve too much. She would have to change herself in ways that she couldn't entirely accept. She would have to dedicate herself to this place, which she had scarcely seen in her struggle to get out of bed.

The entire hour passed without Blair writing a single note apart from that line that the studious boy had quoted verbatim. _Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven_.

Knowing that Melinda would be practicing in their common room, Blair decided that now was as good a time as any to pick up the assignment that her English professor had marked and sent to the front office. As she waited in line, she heard various exclamations of delight or groans of disappointment. They seemed to animated – those young people who surrounded her. So convinced that they were living the best years of their lives, their drive and excitement was so easy to see. Blair glumly wished that she was one of them.

"Name?" the harassed secretary snapped.

"Waldorf," Blair said flatly. "Blair."

She all but threw the paper at her. By this point, the crowd had thinned considerably, leaving Blair almost alone in the teal-coloured office next to the blank forms that allowed people to change their enrolment details or drop a subject. The fluorescent lights were emitting a faint buzzing noise as Blair stood and stared at the paper she had thrown together the night before it was due, just two weeks ago.

There, at the top of her haphazard assignment, was a brutal and confident "D".

With an almost cool and detached shrug, Blair realized that she could no longer boast that she had never been given less than an A grade.

"How did you go?" asked a tall, tanned boy with white teeth.

"Fine," Blair snapped, stuffing the paper into her bag before marching out of the office and into the cool October air.

It had been over a month of steady, growing disappointments. Since she had arrived in this place she had dreamed of during the slow years of high school and late into the nights of her childhood, she had felt as if the entire world – the university, her teachers, the people around her, and even the small square footage of her room – had conspired to chip away at her spirit. It would have been impossible to identify any single cause of her unhappiness. So of course, it seemed to cover everything. Every thought she had was touched by it, and the world around her seemed to be sepia-soaked and lacklustre.

She had come into the bathroom for no reason, really. The open space of the courtyard had seemed too vast and threatening for her fragile state. Staring at herself in the mirror, which was marked by graffiti ("_Fur is Murder, Bitches"_, "_Sloane is a slut", "Affirmative Action On Campus!"_), Blair washed her hands – wanting to appear occupied. Although, the dank little bathroom with its small square tiles was deserted.

That was an accurate way of describing it: she was in a fragile state. The merest force exerted upon her could cause her to shatter. This was new, this feeling of being something small and vulnerable. When she was near Chuck, it seemed so much easier to be strong; any lingering neediness or uncertainty could be smoothed over so easily by curling up in his lap and breathing in the scent of his clothes. It never failed to amaze her: the way she could take such liberties with someone as distant and unreachable as Chuck Bass. Sometimes it was difficult to reconcile the man she had fallen irrevocably in love with and the boy she had know when she wore patent leather sandals on her feet and frilly white socks to her knees.

During that dark period after Bart's death when he had flown away from her and into the darkness, she had taken to bed. That feeling of burrowing deep under the covers had been a sort of comfort to her. It had been easy to pretend to be ill; if you were ill you didn't have to worry about your responsibilities and the way people thought you should be. When you were ill you could lie flat on your back with a steaming cup of tea and feel the feverish battle inside of you. Blair had no idea what Dorota had told Constance during her bed-time vigil. She wouldn't have been able to get out of bed if she had wanted to.

In the warm cocoon of her duvet, Blair had alternated between an uncontrollable hatred of Chuck for leaving her behind at a moment of such vulnerability as after she told him she loved him, and a pressing, gasping regret that she would never be able to be with him in the way she had imagined. In the morbid scenes that she had tortured herself by creating in her mind, Blair had imagined climbing into his lap and burying her head in the crook of his shoulder while rain fell on the windowpanes of her penthouse. Even at the time, Blair had been embarrassed by her imagination – the very notion that Chuck would ever allow a girl to sit in his lap for the sole purpose of holding her close was comical, ludicrous.

Even after they had finally confessed their feelings to each other, Blair had been shy about putting her fantasy into reality. The first time she had actually lived out the dream, it had been at Chuck's insistence, on a night when she was feeling hormonal and teary – when she was short with him for no reason other than that she knew he would forgive her. They had been sitting in Harold's library, and Blair had been griping at him about something or other, and suddenly, he had put his book aside and turned to face her, where she sat, pressed up against the arm of the couch as far from him as she could manage.

For a while he stared at her, as if he were searching her mind for the cause of her grouchiness. Then, with no more than a ghost of his smirk, he had spread his arms wide and quietly ordered her, "Come here."

Sniffing reluctantly, she crawled over to him until she was sitting right next to him. Even as she moved towards him, she frowned. "Why?"

"Because," he shrugged. She stopped crawling towards him at that, huffing about his presumption, but at that point she was within grasping distance, so he had wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her onto his lap. For a moment, she sat frozen in his arms, overwhelmed by the sound of his heart pounding and the smell of his shirt and the feeling of his finger tracing circles on her arm. Lifting her face and kissing her tenderly on the lips, Chuck pressed his forehead against hers. "Okay. Resume bitching."

She hadn't even been able to remember what she had been complaining about.

There, in that cold bathroom, as the sound of the rain that had been threatening to fall hit the panes of glass, Blair felt so achingly alone that it almost stole her breath. She had missed him in all sorts of ways since starting at Yale. She missed the passion they shared, the secrets they shared, the emotional support they gave each other. But this was the first time she had missed his presence: the feeling of warmth than emanated from his arm when it was near hers. She missed his physical presence more acutely than she had missed anything in her life.

Eyes blurring with tears, Blair found herself hurrying into a cubicle, worried that someone would come upon her and find her in an embarrassing state of emotional upheaval. Not that there was anyone in particular who would care…except for Dan, of course. Although Blair knew that Dan would never truly be able to understand the huge disappointment that college had been for her; she could positively sense his glowing satisfaction with the place. It made her stomach twist.

It took a moment of standing there, at a loss – trying to will the tears from her eyes, just so she would have some outward token of her heartbreak – before Blair realized with a swoop of trepidation that she had harboured this intention all along. It had been the very reason she had come into the bathroom to begin with.

For a while, Blair stared straight ahead, not looking at the porcelain of the toilet, trying to analyse her thought patterns, trying to perform the objective account of her feelings that Serena had encouraged her to do when she felt the urge to relapse.

It seemed like such a little thing, Blair mused. And yet even as she found herself considering the way it would feel to pick up that habit where she left off – it had been so long since she had last purged, although she knew that it would take no time at all for the process to takeover her life. Within a few weeks, she would have planned trips to different bathrooms around campus, a probably unnecessary precaution to ensure that no one found out what she was doing to herself. Of course, in this huge campus, full of hostile strangers, no one would particularly care what the silly freshman who missed her boyfriend did after breakfast. It would become a timetabled event, just like her economic history class. It had always been about control, right?

But, with a start, Blair realized that wasn't it at all. At least, not this time. For a moment, she was back in her childhood bedroom, burrowing under the covers and pretending to be ill just so she wouldn't have to face the world. She wanted, needed, hungered for it, really – to be ill, so that someone would have to look after her. And yet, with a swoop of fear, Blair felt a dawning realization that no one would materialize to look after her if she were to kneel before the toilet seat and to force herself to throw up. Relapsing would not bring Chuck to her; if anything, it would give her a reason to push him away.

Perhaps that was what she wanted – some reason to make him feel guilty for his neglect when she finally saw him. She could play out the scene already: she would be solemn and he would beg her for forgiveness. She would confess, and he would promise to fix her.

It was appealing, really, to imagine the way she would sit with her ankles crossed as Chuck knelt before her. "We're going to make you better."

But even as the thought formed, Blair dismissed it. Scenes like that rarely played out the way you intended them to. And people never responded quite the way you would have liked. Every confession that she had ever given when it came to her bulimia had been surrounded by shame-faced embarrassment and the sense that there was something distasteful and unrestrained about the entire thing. Even Chuck had never fully understood it; what chance did he have – she didn't understand it herself? And the last thing Blair wanted to do was to keep him next to her because of a sense of dogged duty. Not to mention the fact that something was happening in Chuck's life that was too big and consuming for him to confide it in her – surely confessing to him another instance of weakness would do nothing to restore his faith in her as his confidante. Blair swallowed the choking sadness that filled her at the thought of herself exiled from his life. She would never be able to tell him, then. It would have to be a secret – like it had been before. Perhaps it was a stupid idea – a plea for attention, not becoming for a worldly woman such as she.

In the end, though, she did kneel down and press her finger down on the back of her throat. For no other reason then she felt stupid standing in the cubicle for so long. After all, it wasn't as if it was her first time.

It was a foolish deal she made with herself: a lapse that would not be a relapse. It would be a reminder that she always had about her a hint of sickness that could be used as an excuse for why everything around her seemed so wrong. Perhaps this time she would stop it before it became a habit. But, with a chilly detachment that disturbed her as she took a few sips of water from the tap, trying to soothe the burning in her throat, Blair found that she didn't particularly care.

She'd had this sense before: of impending catastrophe. There was something coming towards her, she knew. And whether it was self-inflicted or perpetrated by forces that she couldn't try to control, Blair had the peculiar sense that soon everything would change.

It would have been so much less terrifying if she had been able to spend a few minutes listening to Chuck's heartbeat.

*

For a long time, Vanessa and Chuck sat in silence, both lost in their own thoughts.

"Wow," Vanessa whistled, breaking a silence that might have stretched on forever. "That is pretty messed up."

"Your gift for insight is chilling as always," Chuck said impassively, picking at the ludicrous _Hello Kitty_ throw rug.

"Well I'm just saying," Vanessa shrugged. "It _is _pretty messed up."

Exhaling through his teeth, Chuck rolled his eyes. "You think I came here at this ungodly hour for you to tell me what I already know?"

Vanessa spread her arms wide. "I honestly have no idea what to say to you, Chuck."

"But I thought you were meant to be the relationship Yoda," Chuck said, sounding awfully put out.

She offered him a crooked smile. "This one might be a little bit out of my league."

"I think it's a little out of my league as well," Chuck said with a sigh.

Another silence fell between them. Chuck stood up to glance out of the window. She wondered idly what he thought of her life at NYU. She knew he would hate her décor, but after years of feeling like a lodger in her sister's house, it was a thrill having her own space – one that she could define for herself. That was something she and Chuck had in common. But now, finally, she had found a place where she could become the persons he had always dreamed of being. And yet, Chuck remained lost somehow.

This had been what Vanessa was scared of when she and Dan were together: that if she stayed with him, she would grow so attached that she only felt at home when she was with him. And the reality was – although no one was really meant to say it – that she loved herself more than him.[1] So, she had left him to find herself. And even though all she had found was some incredible footage of America and a penchant for dry rub, she knew that it had been the right decision. It was the only way she could live with herself, although there were times out on the road when she had been convinced that she might die of her breathless longing to be close to the only person who had ever really known her. But, soon enough, she had learnt not to resent the feeling and instead to be thankful that she had found someone who could inspire those feelings inside of her.

Chuck was still staring out the window, lost in thought. When Vanessa finally spoke, he seemed surprised to hear her voice.

"I get why you're helping Eleanor through this," Vanessa said carefully, studying him. "And I think it's really great of you. But what I don't understand is why _you _haven't told Blair."

"I told you," he said flatly. "Eleanor asked me not to."

Vanessa crossed her arms, giving him a pointed look. "And you just do anything Eleanor Waldorf tells you to? Was that your evil twin who had a throwdown fight with her when she told you to stay away from her daughter? I seem to remember you screaming bloody murder if she tried to tell you what to order for breakfast."

"I enjoy dramatic displays," Chuck shrugged, almost sheepishly.

"They're more like five act plays," Vanessa retorted, realizing suddenly that one of her earrings were missing. As she pulled of the single hoop that remained, she regarded Chuck in the mirror. He looked so out of place next to that ridiculous chair with the silly Hello Kitty throw rug draped across it. But she wasn't fooled; he was still as proud and prone to anger as ever. "I just don't know how you can do it," she said, shaking her head. "How do you stand in front of her and not mention what you know."

A flash of something akin to guilt passed across his face. "Well…I haven't exactly stood in front of her for a while."

"What's 'a while'?" Vanessa asked, attempting to remain impassive.

"I haven't seen her since she went to Yale. We've spoken, though. Don't start."

"Don't _start?_ Are you seriously telling me that you haven't seen Blair face-to-face in six weeks?"

His jaw clenched slightly. "I've been busy. Looking after her mother."

Vanessa gaped at him, her jewellery box left forgotten on the table. "And so you're letting her sit in New Haven wondering what she's done wrong – why you aren't talking to her?"

"I am giving her a chance to live her dream," he spat. "So spare me your pop psychology."

"Pop psychology?" Vanessa asked, feeling a strange swoop of anger at his arrogant head tilt and the way his arms were crossed. "Chuck – any idiot can tell you this. You know it yourself. And if you don't fix this, then you're going to destroy this relationship and neither you or Blair are going to understand why."

"You've got a lot of opinions for someone who has fucked up every relationship she's had."

Vanessa froze. She could see that the moment he uttered the words, he regretted them. And for the first time since she had befriended Chuck Bass, she had no desire to ease his discomfort. Avoiding his eyes, she picked up her student card and a towel.

"Look. I've got things to do Chuck. Maybe you should go."

"Vanessa."

"It's fine. Just go."

As he walked towards the door, he paused and glanced at her. "I'm…you know."

"You're sorry?" she prompted.

He nodded.

"God you're impossible," she said, breathing through her teeth.

He seemed to sense that she would only give in to him if he offered her one of those rare insights into his mind. He focused his eyes on the wall behind her. "All I want to do is to spare her from pain. But all I'm managing to do is hurt her."

She couldn't help it – she thawed immediately, reaching out to touch his arm lightly. "Behind all that bravado, Eleanor's scared. She doesn't want you tell Blair because then it'll be real for her. But it's real already." She paused. "Do you miss her?"

It was one of those momentary glimpses of the depth of his feelings for Blair that never failed to leave Vanessa breathless. With one look into his hooded eyes, she felt a strange sensation of vertigo. There was something indescribably sad and lost about his face and her heart ached for him. It was a relief, really, when he broke their gaze.

"Sometimes I think that everything would be so much easier if I'd never fallen in love with Blair. I would be sitting in Monaco or something right now. I'd be drunk off my ass and throwing money around."

"You'd be like you were before," she said softly.

"And I think about how free and easy it all was," he said, continuing as if he hadn't heard her. "Because I never knew that there was more to life than that. And everything was very clear to me, you know? I knew where everyone belonged and where I belonged."

"Do you miss your old life?"

He furrowed his eyebrows, thinking. "It doesn't really matter, does it? I mean. I'm not that person anymore. I couldn't pick that life up where I left off because now I know that there _is_ more to life than that. You know, Blair just…"

"What?" she asked when he trailed off.

"She's just ruined me," he said with the ghost of a smile. "In the best way possible. And just the act of being in love with her is just…it's the only thing I've ever gotten right, really." [2]

"Chuck," she said slowly, chewing her bottom lip. "Go to her. Today – right now. Go to Yale and look her in the eye - "

"But Eleanor - " he began.

"I'm not saying tell her," Vanessa said, holding up a hand. "I'm saying go and see her. Just because you're obviously miserable without her, and I know that Blair would be miserable without you. And when you're there, face-to-face, you'll know what to say."

Chuck smiled faintly, nodding. "Well. I'll let you get on with your day."

"And Chuck?" she asked as he opened the door to let himself out. "Just to set the record straight, Nate fucked up the first one."

"And with Dan?"

She smiled a tight, regretful smile. "That was all me."

*

It was one of those fleeting moments when the spectre that seemed to hover so low and threatening over Eric's shoulder abated, and he could be in the sun with friends without feeling blank and detached.

He was sitting with Jenny on the same steps that Blair Waldorf and her minions had once inhabited. There was new group of bitchy and glamorous girls who had risen to take over from the Mean Girls of the bygone era. And yet, they seemed a strange and hollow facsimile of their predecessors. Nate, Serena, Blair – each name was accompanied with a small pang. Eric missed them all so intensely. He knew that Chuck felt the same way; more than once Eric had seen his brother glance wistfully at the Met steps, before speeding up slightly to get away.

If only it were that easy.

"I can't believe you're reading that," Eric said, rolling his eyes at the magazine Jenny was reading with a degree of concentration that he had never seen in her when she wasn't in front of her sewing machine.

"I like it," Jenny shrugged, before flipping the glossy pages and raising an eyebrow. Glancing at Eric with a crooked smile, Jenny cleared her throat. "'There's Something in the (Billion)air'."

"What are you talking about?"

She shot him another amused look. "Annie Sebel sits down with New York's newest billionaire, Chuck Bass, and learns about how this reformed bad boy intends to become the new property Wunderkind."

Eric grimaced. "That must have been one of the interviews the PR people at Bass Industries made him do. Is it gruesome?"

Jenny threw the magazine towards him, picking up her apple and taking a loud bite. "See for yourself."

There he was, Chuck Bass, sprawled arrogantly on a chair in an empty boardroom looking onto the New York skyline. He was smirking at the camera, and Eric knew without reading a word that he would have shamelessly flirted with the woman who interviewed him. He really was an insufferable git sometimes.

Scanning the interview, Eric found himself laughing at some of Chuck's responses, although in light of all that had transpired between Chuck and the company, it was bittersweet to read his words. And it was strange to think that this interview had been recorded before Chuck's relationship with Jack had been torn to shreds: before the world had learnt his secrets. Eric noted the small note at the end of the interview that noted that since the interview was given, Chuck had given up his majority share in Bass Industries amid the furore accompanying the news that Jack Bass was in fact his biological father.

AS: _So tell me, Chuck. If you weren't set on a career in business, what would you want to be when you grow up?_

CB: _That's hard to say Annie. But I suppose a part of me has always wanted to join a monastery._

AS: (laughs). _From what I hear of your reputation, I don't think you'd fit in there._

CB: _Oh but you've got me all wrong. I'm quite a meek sort. _

AS: _Meek? Forgive me, but I have to say that meek is not really the word I'd use to describe you._

CB: _Well, other than being handsome, witty, and virile, I'd say meek comes in a close fourth when it comes to adjectives to describe me. Besides. I heard somewhere that the meed are going to inherit big one of these days and I plan to be around to cash in when it happens. _[3]

"That is just so Chuck," Eric mused.

"Arrogant and sarcastic?" Jenny muttered, opening her packet of dried fruit with slightly more aggression then was really appropriate.

Eric glanced at her, surprised by the sudden vitriol. "Jenny…is there some reason behind this sudden instance of passive aggression?"

Jenny rolled her eyes, pulling her fuchsia coat closer around her skinny frame. "It's nothing. I just don't think I'm ever going to get used to everyone _liking_ Chuck Bass. You, Dan, my dad, Vanessa, Serena. It's just weird for me."

Eric frowned. "Jenny, if it bothers you that Chuck and I are so close, you should tell me."

Jenny glanced at him, pursing her lips and considering her words carefully. "I know he's a walking testament to the power of change, and I know how important he is to you. But to me he's always going to be that guy who tried to force himself on me at the Kiss on the Lips party."

It had honestly never occurred to him that she might feel that way. Mentally slapping himself on the head, Eric reached out to touch Jenny on the knee. It was the strangest thing; you could stand next to someone at any number of social events and you could think that both of you are seeing the scene in the exact same way. All it took was one throw-away statement to undo it all.

Of course, it was so easy to pass it all off now that Chuck had forged himself a new identity. Even Jenny's brother had forged a strong friendship with Chuck, when Dan had been the one to punch Chuck in the nose that night.

And Eric, of course, had always found it difficult to judge Chuck for his transgressions, when he had always been so forgiving of Eric's own. One summer, when Lily was off in Europe with Klaus, and he and Serena were living in the Waldorf household, Eric had tagged along with the Non-Judging Breakfast Club to Nate's holiday house in Martha's Vineyard. He had whinged and begged Serena for an invitation. Nate was kind, as always, and had no problem with the much younger Eric coming with them.

While most people spent summer holidays lounging around the house doing nothing in particular, Nate seemed to have a rigorous schedule plotted out for himself. He would rise slightly before dawn to run down to a secluded part of the beach, listening to the sound of his feet slapping against the wood of the jetty. And when he returned to his house, with it's artificial lake, Nate would glance around furtively – and if no one were around, he would strip down and propel his sweaty body into the refreshing water.

Eric knew this because he had accidentally come upon Nate down by the water one morning when sleep had been elusive. There was a small shed down by the lake, and the instant Eric saw Nate's naked body, he had felt compelled to hide himself behind the shed. At that point, he had no idea what the wider significance of his desire to watch Nate glistening and wet under the blue sky; all he knew was that it was important to hide the fact from Nate. That had been the worst part of being in the closet: the furtiveness that came with hiding it. As he watched Nate, hidden from view, he felt the first flare of self-loathing that would come to characterise him during his years of depression.

Of course, self-loathing or not, he had still conspired to watch Nate again the next morning. It was harmless, he told himself. He wasn't doing anything more than watching.

"Enjoying the show?"

It had been the last voice Eric would have wanted to hear in this moment. Turning around, red-faced and full of excuses, he felt a swoop of nervousness. He never quite knew what to make of Chuck Bass, who stood before him, smirking and lighting a cigarette, before offering one to the younger boy.

It was the lot of the younger brother to carefully dissect the interactions of those older friends who seemed so remote and fascinating compared to Eric's own age group. Eric envied Serena her close-knit group of friends: envied her the constant swirl of parties and invitations. It was all so effortless for his sister, while Eric found himself desperately wanting to slot into the Non-Judging Breakfast Club's lives in some capacity other than her strange little brother. Of course, although Nate was kind to him, and Blair looked after him with the vaguely disapproving air of a mother, he would never really fit in with them. Although, after summers spent watching them from hidden places, Eric was willing to wager that he understood more about their dynamic than they did themselves. And yet, Chuck Bass remained an unknown quantity, prone to cruelty, not bothering to engage with Eric more than was necessary. And yet, more than any of them, Chuck fascinated Eric, with his wit and the hint of danger that followed him wherever he went.

Even then, though, the first signs of the embarrassing attraction Eric would develop for his soon-to-be-step-brother after Bart and Lily announced their engagement was present. He took in Chuck's almond eyes and messy hair. Even as Eric stood, almost shivering with the belief that at any moment, Chuck was going to punch him, or shout for Nate. But, for some reason, Chuck didn't shout or comment in any way as he looked over and saw Nate climb out of the water – stark naked – before pulling on his sweats and running off, unaware that he was being watched.

"I was just…" Eric searched for an excuse. "I mean I wasn't…I couldn't sleep."

Chuck settled his dark eyes upon Eric's face, before nodding. "Okay."

Eric gaped at him. "Okay?"

Chuck seemed to have lost interest in the entire exchange, turning around to wander back up to the house – preparing himself for another day of exchanging barbs with Blair and making leery comments to Serena – Chuck turned around to look at Eric's nervous face. "You need to work on your stealth skills, little Van Der Woodsen," he called.

"I wasn't - " Eric shouted after him.

"Whatever," Chuck waved dismissively before throwing his cigarette to the ground.

And to Eric's knowledge, he had never told anyone. It was that moment – and hundreds of others that would follow over the course of their relationship – that made it impossible for Eric to judge Chuck. He knew it was incredibly unfair of him, but a part of Eric was annoyed at Jenny for bringing it up – for complicating the one relationship that Eric valued so deeply. He resented Jenny for harbouring these feelings in the dark, secret spaces within her, but he resented her even more for bringing them to the surface. Although he knew that what Chuck had almost done would have been unforgivable, Eric felt an ugly swell of anger that Jenny couldn't just let it all go and see Chuck as the man he was now: lonely, damaged, and somehow more fascinating than any eighteen year old had a right to be.

Eric had no recollection of Jenny giving any outward sign of her discomfort; she had never seemed to mind going to their family events, with Chuck sitting at the table. She had dutifully gone with her family to Innisfree. There had been so many opportunities for Jenny to lash out, and yet she had let every single one slip by. Eric cocked his head to the side, staring at her interestedly. Clearly, there were spaces within Jenny Humphrey that no one ever got to see.

"Why didn't you say anything? I mean if you even hinted about what happened to Rufus, he would go crazy."

"It's like he's two people," Jenny shrugged. "And I don't want to hurt the Chuck who is your brother and Dan's friend. I don't want to be the reason he loses more people from his life."

There was a beat of silence. "Maybe I can…"

Eric didn't know how to finish that statement. What could really promise his friend? That he'd stop talking to Chuck out of solidarity? That would never happen. And the idea that Jenny might somehow make him choose between her and Chuck was too horrible to imagine. Worse still was the fact she probably knew that she wouldn't be able to compete.

"Don't do anything," she said quickly. "I know how important Chuck is to you. Don't do anything. I'm fine."

Eric smiled at her gratefully. "You know Chuck would never hurt you, right?"

"I know," Jenny said simply.

There was a moment of uncertain silence between the pair, as Eric searched about in his mind for something to say. Jenny opened the magazine once more. Laughing with an affected lightness, she pointed to another line of Chuck's interview. Eric felt a pang for her, seeing how hard she was trying to regain equilibrium between them. Eric knew that feeling so well: the withdrawal that came after an exposure. With a wistful smile, he glanced down at where Jenny's finger was pointing out another line.

AS: _Tell us about your interests. _

CB: _I enjoy bowties, the culture and entertainment industry of Thailand, and of course filling up large bathtubs with money and swimming in them._

AS: (laughing) _You can't be serious._

CB: _You're right. The bathtub thing is actually more boring than you'd expect. _

*

For Chuck, the notion of Yale was inextricably tied up with Blair.

It was a strange sensation, as his limo taxied to a stop outside the dorms (attracting either impressed looks or snorts of derision). Although he'd had his own adventure at Yale – the triumphant blackmailing of the future leaders of America being one of his favourites – he would never be able to separate his concept of the place from the transcendent look on Blair's face when she spoke of her plans.

For more than a month, the image of Blair walking through this campus had sustained him. The thought that she was finally among people who shared her thirst for learning, who respected the old institutions they had the opportunity to learn in: these things he held in his hand to warm him in those sterile waiting rooms. There were nights, in the Archibald's deserted house, that Chuck had fancied he might disappear from New York and reappear in New Haven, just because of the force of his concentration on the image.

He had fancied that when he arrived here, he would call in on Dan Humphrey first, to hear what Dan had found out about Blair's life here. It was a strange feeling, to walk towards her and have no idea what the substance of her days here were like. And yet, now that night was falling, and he sat in his idling limousine outside of Blair's dorm, he found the prospect of delaying even for a moment impossible.

The cool bite of the air and the sound of his shoes crunching the partly frozen soil were reassuring. They reminded him that this was real, that in a few short moments, he would be standing looking into her eyes. He tightened his hold on the bouquet he had purchased for her, feeling suddenly foolish with his clichéd gift. He should have brought her jewellery. He should have come here sooner. He should turn around and run back to his car.

And yet still Chuck continued his march into the building he had scrawled in the small Molskine notebook Dan had given him to take to Princeton. It was not until he was reading Blair's address written in her neat script on the first page, that Chuck realized that his hands were shaking slightly. He had come here completely unprepared for what would meet him. He had come here hoping that inspiration would strike and he would know exactly what to say. He had come here –

"Chuck?"

Chuck froze in surprise. He had been so fixated upon his steady progress towards Blair's room, that he hadn't expected that anyone would interrupt his progress.

"Dan," he said slowly. "What are you doing here?"

Dan smiled slightly. "Isn't that what I should be asking you?"

Chuck shifted on his feet, crossing his arms slightly at the gentle rebuke behind Dan's words. Narrowing his eyes at Dan's surprisingly stylish overcoat (had it been a gift from Lily? Had Blair helped him choose it?) Chuck's lip curled. "You're the one slinking away from my girlfriend's room. So perhaps you should leave the questions to me."

"Wait," Dan said, visibly surprised. "Did you seriously just suggest…I mean – are you serious?"

Chuck deflated slightly. "I'm a little out of the loop."

"Trust me when I say you could never be _that _out of the loop," Dan said quickly.

"I'm trying not take your insistence personally," Chuck muttered.

At that, Dan and Chuck exchanged an unwilling smile.

"You know, if Blair had told me you were coming I would have dropped the whole 'get Blair out of the dorm for a night' thing," Dan mused. "I just thought it would be good for her to actually get out of bed for once."

"What do you mean?" Chuck frowned.

Guilt and compassion in equal measure flickered across Dan's face and Chuck felt a swoop of trepidation. Leaning against the wall, Dan ran his hands over the exposed sandstone, fiddling slightly with a poster advertising some band's performance later that week.

"I wasn't sure how to…I mean it's not like there's anything really to tell…it's kind of hard to convey."

"I'm glad to see that tertiary education has improved your ability to express yourself," Chuck snapped, feeling a coil of fear in the base of his stomach, his eyes wandering down the hall towards Blair's room. Dan had the insane urge to laugh at the sight of him looking so angry and threatening with a huge bouquet of flowers in his arms.

Dan bit his lip. "Look. When you called me and asked - "

"Ordered," Chuck corrected.

"Asked me," Dan said pointedly, "to check on Blair. I went to see her. And something was…just…off. She just seemed…different."

"What was wrong with her?"

Dan frowned at the note of thinly veiled panic in Chuck's voice. "I don't know. She really misses you….for some unknown reason."

"People like me," Chuck said with an arrogant smirk.

"And so last week we decided to…well…we went to Princeton to see you."

Any hint of a smirk had disappeared from Chuck's face. In fact, the very colour seemed to drain from his cheeks. Taking a few calming breaths, Chuck's usually cool disposition seemed to disappear for a moment. Dan could see that he was only just restraining himself from running down the hall and knocking down her door in an attempt to get to her. The beautiful bunch of flowers in his hands seemed too garish for the conversation.

"I see," Chuck said tightly. "And what happened when you got to Princeton."

Dan cocked his head to the side. "What do you think happened?"

For a moment Chuck stood stock-still, staring at him intensely. Then, without saying a word, Chuck turned around and kicked a low wooden chair that sat propped up against the wall opposite. For a moment, Dan was reminded of that morning after Chuck's eighteenth birthday, when he and Blair had walked into Rufus' gallery, with Blair's bruises visible through all the make-up she had piled on to hide them. When Chuck had related the previous evening's events, he had kicked a chair across the room. Despite his wit and grasp of wordplay, when it came to Blair, Chuck always seemed at a loss for words. There was something so primal about his responses to her. It was a bit terrifying, really.

"And let me guess," Chuck said, his chest heaving. "Blair now thinks this is a conspiracy designed to cut her out of my life."

Dan shrugged sympathetically. "Pretty much."

The injustice of it was almost too much to withstand. Without saying a word to Dan, Chuck marched down the hallway, suddenly fearful of what he would find waiting for him on the other side of the door.

For his part, Dan watched as the darkness of the hallway swallowed Chuck's form, suddenly achingly aware that any attempt he had made to define himself against Chuck and Blair was doomed to fail. And at that moment, Dan came to a decision. He was not going to fight it anymore. For better or worse, he would write himself into their story.

*

Blair moved through the darkened common room, enjoying the feeling of being invisible. Although there was no reason to be so clandestine. Since she had sent Dan away from her, half-touched, half-irritated by his overtures of friendship, Blair knew that she would have the entire dorm to herself that night.

Melinda had wanted to ask her to the concert – Blair knew it. And yet, she seemed to know that Blair would refuse to attend, and wanted to spare her the embarrassment of having to say no. The thought of sitting in a stuffy room, moved to tears at the sound of Melinda's playing was too mortifying to consider. And so, she had wished the girl luck and made her promise to perform the Air for Blair the next night, in their common room.

There seemed to be nothing for it but to climb into bed, and try to ignore the sense she had of her world shrinking down to the size of her bedroom.

But before she could settle into the warm cocoon of bed, another knock at the door dragged her out of bed. Setting her face into a scowl, Blair stomped across the room.

"I told you, Humphrey," she spat as she pulled open the door. "I'm not interested in your pity invitation."

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Even when they did, she feared for a moment that she had gone completely insane: that the force of her longing for him had somehow made this phantom-Chuck appear from nowhere. For a long moment, they stared at each other, neither one of them speaking or moving. It was a strange sensation, to be standing in one of her scanty nightdresses when Chuck stood rugged up in an overcoat and scarf. There was something strange about his bearing; he was nervous.

"Chuck," she whispered uncertainly. "Are you really here?"

It was as if her words had been a starting gun; the moment she opened her mouth, he stepped across the threshold and pulled her into his arms. And the moment he touched her, any thought that she had, any question she wanted to ask him – everything was drowned out by the hammering of her heart and the feeling of pressing herself against him. She noticed without any interest that he had let a beautiful bouquet of flowers fall to the ground. All she cared about was pulling off the obtrusive overcoat so that she could get closer-closer-closer to him.

She had forgotten what it was like to hold him, to smell his hair and the scent of his aftershave, which always evoked something old, with just a hint of danger. She had forgotten the way his expensive shirts felt under her hands when she wrapped her arms around him – from that first night he had come to her room coming apart at the seams and she had held on to him for no other reason than if he disappeared she wouldn't have been able to withstand it.

It was a moment of double vision. For a moment, he was two people. There was the almost-grown Chuck that stood before her, who had learnt how to stand up and whose eyes were creased with worry. But there was also the young boy with the cultivated messy hair and a cravat, who thought that buying jewellery was the way to win a woman's heart. He had come to her in the bedroom on her seventeenth birthday, with the gift hidden behind his back. It had seemed like an engineered moment; one that he had planned in order to gain the most effective dramatic timing. But when he had sat down next to her, fastening the clasp of the necklace, Blair had felt the slight tremble of his hands and had been able to hear the quickening beat of his heart. Although she had mistreated him terribly – had rebuked his every advance, had been content to keep him as a guilty and embarrassing secret – she now felt nothing but tearful affection for him, filled with regret that she had given him a moment of pain, whether deserved or undeserved.

As in all things, they were perfectly mirrored; as Blair saw two Chucks unfolding before her, she also saw the two Blairs who played opposite him. There was the Blair she had once been: proud and insecure, neglected, but with a secret sense that there was some invisible thing that was precious about her that no one ever saw. That was the Blair who had been at once terrified about what Chuck thought of her after their first night together in the limo, but that had also been the Blair who thought of him as somehow beneath her, the Blair who had done nothing to convince him that love was more than an expensive necklace around the neck. She had been so convinced that with enough force – of character, of will – life could be pressed and manipulated into a particular shape. _That_ had been the Blair who had dreamed of Yale, as the very model of selectivity and elitism.

And that was the Blair who had been destroyed the moment that Chuck had told her that he loved her, although really she had begun coming apart long before that. Because the moment that they had given in to their feelings for each other, they had also given up something. Chuck had given up his escape routes; Blair had given up her control. Breathing in the scent of him, after all these months, Blair found that she couldn't force herself to let go of him, couldn't pretend that everything was all right. Could do nothing but grip his arms in a way that must have been painful and hope to high heaven that he would never let go of her.

But, of course, after some time passed in this silent embrace, he pulled away to look at her face.

It was unfair, really, to insist on seeing her clearly in that moment. She was unprepared; she was vulnerable after the overwhelming experience of having him there, that moment, in her arms. She didn't have time to put her mask in place. And so when he looked at her – one of those searing, deep looks that terrified her – she knew that her eyes must have been desperate and seemed to big for her face.

"Blair," he said, startled by what he saw in her face. "What's going on?"

She forced herself to laugh, although what came out was a strange, tinkling thing that caused both of them to wince. But he didn't let go of her waist, his hands almost encircling her entirely. Looking him in the eye, she felt a sudden, hysterical feeling of panic, that at any moment this would cease to be real.

"No talking," she whispered desperately. "Just…not yet."

"Later?" he asked, trying to keep a hold of his faculties as her expert fingers rid him of her belt.

"Later," she agreed.

And within a few moments, neither of them could have spoken if they'd wanted to.

*

A/N: Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Next chapter is entitled, "Everything is Illuminated" and now that exams are over I will be able to update more frequently!

[1] To quote Samantha from _Sex and the City: The Movie_.

[2] Part of this is clearly a _Dawson's Creek_ quote, but as for the other part – I'm really frustrated because I can't quite remember!!! Can anyone tell me?

[3] From Cassandra Claire's _Draco Veritas_.


	5. Chapter 5: Everything Is Illuminated

**Chapter Five:** **Everything Is Illuminated**

"I have reflected many times upon our rigid search. It has shown me that everything is illuminated in the light of the past. It is always along the side of us, on the inside, looking out. Like you say, inside out. Jonathan, in this way, I will always be along the side of your life. And you will always be along the side of mine."

- Jonathon Safran Foer, "Everything Is Illuminated"

*

There were only three words that came to Chuck as he lay entwined with Blair on the floor of the Yale common room she shared with a mysterious girl Chuck didn't know the first thing about.

_That. Was. Hot_.

Despite the impending conversation that would undoubtedly lead to harsh words exchanged and the dawning realization that the version of events he had envisaged hadn't been right at all, Chuck could not help but feel relieved that the one constant between them - their remarkable chemistry – had not been damaged by time and distance.

It was a moment of stillness and reprieve, and in the crook of his arm, Blair slept deeply. Chuck had the sneaking suspicion that tiredness had become her dominant feeling. Lifting a strand of hair that had fallen over her forehead, and grinning to himself at the feeling of moisture where she had drooled slightly on his arm, he leant over and kissed her on the forehead. A part of him was irritated with himself for not exercising restraint and trying to understand what the cause of that lost and terrified look in her eyes was, before succumbing to the desperate need to be buried within her.

And yet now, Chuck found himself wakeful and pensive, even as the after-shocks of what had been an intense physical experience still ran down his spine. Biting his lip slightly, Chuck reached up to the couch and pulled a pillow down to their space on the floor, placing it gently under Blair's head before pulling on his boxer shorts. Biting his lip slightly, trying to figure out what else he should do to make her more comfortable, he made his way through the dark room to find the room he assumed was her dorm room.

The instant he walked in – after stubbing his toe on a stray seat that had not announced its presence to him during his navigation of the room – he was certain that he'd entered the wrong room. There was no way this unmade bed and the towering piles of clothes could belong in the realm of Blair Waldorf. Yet within another moment, he saw those clothes he recognised as hers and the pervasive scent of Dior J'Adore which told him that this was Blair's space.

It was strange for Chuck, who had never allowed himself to get close to anyone before Blair, to realize how much stock he had placed in those tiny intimate details of her personality. That Blair was someone who demanded that the space around her was immaculately neat was one of those essential facts about her that, added together, constituted the details of her personality. To see this trait suddenly so profoundly altered disturbed him more than he would have expected.

Back in New York, Chuck had wandered quite freely in and out of Blair's room, respecting her privacy as a mark of the trust they shared, but also aware that permission did not need to be granted for him to open her drawers to pull out a warm grey pullover he had left there. And correspondingly, Blair had made herself comfortable in his bedroom at the Van Der Woodsen's apartment. More than once, he had returned home to find Blair curled up asleep on his bed, with a heavy book lying forgotten next to her. It had been strangely thrilling to experience this level of intimacy, although there was a part of him that knew that for two proud and private people, the only way that it would work was for both of them to make a tacit promise not to rifle through each other's possessions.

Even at Innisfree, there was a drawer in the master bedroom that Chuck never opened; he knew it was full of those notebooks Blair had written in religiously during the first few years of secondary school. He imagined that she left them there to test him: a teasing opportunity to gain an insight into her adolescent thoughts. He did the same to her: making a point to hide the key to the lock-up drawer in his desk when she was watching him out of the corner of her eye.

It was a front, of course – an attempt at some kind of barrier between their identities when both of them understood that they were absolutely entwined with each other.

Now, though. Now, to stand in this small room and to see not even a hint of Blair's personal identity, or the presence of friends or family, (or even a photograph of him, he noticed with a pang) Chuck felt the strange need to justify his own presence here. Walking towards her bed to grab the doona that had been his vague reason for being in the room in the first place, he found himself sitting on the bed involuntarily.

He suddenly understood the cause of Dan's inarticulate and fumbling sentences. It _was _difficult to convey the disquieting sight of the room and all its contents. Switching on a surprisingly modern and practical lamp (a far cry from the feminine or antique light fixtures Blair usually favoured), he looked around the room, still seated on her bed. Teetering on the edge of decision he had barely posed to himself, Chuck looked around for some kind of sign to tell him on which side he should fall.

It was at that moment that his eyes fell on a bag with the tantalising view of the corner of a typed paper peeking from the edge of the stitching. There was nothing for it. Looking around with a hint of guilt, Chuck reached into the bag and pulled out the English paper Blair had picked up the day before.

During his drug-hazed days, when the pounding in his head and the allure of the night made concentrating in school impossible, Chuck had received his fair share of mediocre grades. And yet, for the life of him, he could not recall Blair ever receiving less than an "A" in her entire schooling. It had been a cause of annoyance during the early years of their friendship; whenever Chuck, Serena or Nate would bemoan some result, or complaint that they hadn't had enough time to complete the assignment, Blair would affix them with an imperious look, pull out her perfect piece of homework and remind them of the ten different clubs and societies that she was in charge of managing.

"Your girlfriend has her head so far up her own ass that it would take a CIA extraction team to get it out," Chuck would grumble to Nate as even Serena struggled to maintain her cool at Blair's incessant lecturing on the value of time management.

Of course, Blair had mellowed over time, when she saw the way Nate's eyes would glaze over whenever he looked at her mind-maps or flashcards. Soon enough, her academic achievements became driven not by a snooty desire to best her classmates (to have tangible evidence that she was superior to them), but rather by her passion for stepping out of her own life and into the pages of books. It became one of the things that Chuck loved about her: that touch of the nerd underneath her elegant exterior. The way she would bite her lips and frown at the pages, as if she could scarcely believe what injustice was tumbling down upon the characters she had been tricked into caring for. And in turn, she had taken Chuck with her into world's far more perfect – or at least more engaging – than their own world, which so often seemed too hollow.

As he looked at the haphazard and ill-considered assignment, he found himself suddenly and inexplicably furious at her.

Or rather, furious at this counterfeit Blair, who was treating her chance at living her dream of Yale with such dubious respect.

"Chuck," came a gentle voice from the doorway. "What are you doing in here?"

Looking back upon his rage of that evening, and living the entire wretched evening over again, Chuck would come to realize several things which had eluded him. First, he would realize that the anger he felt at her was a misdirected rage he felt towards himself. He must have failed her in some profound and unforgivable way; he had caused some change in her persona or he hadn't checked up on her enough. The second realization he would have after some time cooling down, was that his fury had been _really_ directed at Eleanor Waldorf, for forcing him to push Blair away, for refusing to face up to her illness, for making Chuck shoulder a burden he now realized that Blair was in no state to withstand. And finally, he hated that Blair had become someone he didn't know.

At least, those were the only reasons he could identify to justify the way he spoke to her that night.

Looking up at Blair, noting that she had pulled on her nightdress, he felt a swell of relief that she had not inadvertently entered the lion's den without armour on. The anger that had formed somewhere in the base of his stomach grew when he saw the look of panic on her face change one of defiance.

"I see you spared no time to go snooping through my personal possessions," she spat.

With a barely contained fury, he stood up and stalked over to her. Waving the offending paper in her face, he narrowed his eyes at her. "Do you want to explain to me what the fuck this is about?"

She crossed her arms, challenging him with her eyes. "Um…let me think. No I don't."

And with that, she turned around and left the room.

"You do not walk away from me in the middle of a discussion," he shouted after her, in hot pursuit.

She continued to ignore him, performing infuriating tasks like switching on the lights in the common room. She even picked up the pillow that he had put under her head. Chuck felt a sudden swoop of embarrassment, standing in his boxer shorts and holding a term paper he had pilfered from her bag. As she went about the room, straightening up those surfaces that they had stumbled into in the course of their frantic tearing at each other's clothes. Chuck was suddenly aware of the faint stinging on his back where her nails had broken the skin. He watched in silence as she picked up the flowers he had thrown to the ground and putting them in a plastic vase (once more, Chuck felt a swoop of anger at the sight of her using some stranger's crass vase, when the Blair he knew would have insisted on crystal).

"Thank you for the flowers," she said in a strangely unaffected voice. "They're lovely."

"Blair," he said in a low voice. "We are having this conversation. And we are having it now."

Blair finally turned to face him, her face frustratingly impassive and detached. "I got a D. It's no big deal."

He gaped at her. "The Blair Waldorf I know does not think that D's are 'no big deal'."

This, finally, seemed to cause a reaction. "Well the Blair Waldorf _you_ know doesn't have to rely on Dan _Humph_rey to give her updates on what her boyfriend is doing. The Blair Waldorf you know doesn't have sit here wondering what her boyfriend is doing – or should I say _who_ he's doing – because he's sure as fuck not at Princeton like he said he was."

There was a beat of loaded silence. Blair turned around to open the blinds slightly, and the dawning light cast a pale and ghostly shape on the ground. She didn't turn back to face him, her hands flat on windowsill. There was a faint bruise forming on her right shoulder blade, where she her skin had impacted on the wooden bookshelves that lined the common room.

Chuck suddenly recalled another fight between them: before he had admitted his failure to get into Yale. Her eyes had been so cold when she'd said those words that had chased after him even when he left the room - left their fight:

"_You owe me the truth…Because I'm the one taking all the risks, I'm the one who's acting like your wife without anything in return. Because I'm the one gambling on Chuck Bass - "_

And of course, he had been just as cruel:

"_So you don't trust me. That's what this is all about. You think I'm lying to you. You still think I'm fucking people behind your back. You keep me on too short a leash to even have the chance. But it's not enough, is it? Nothing I do is enough."_

Sometimes it seemed as if they had moved far passed that point in their relationship. But at times, like now, Chuck felt as if they were still stuck in one place. Neither one of them trusting the way they felt about each other, both convinced that betrayal was around the corner. And now, once again, she was accusing him of cheating: the one thing he had never even considered during their time together. It was unfair of her to use the person he had been when they were children against him.

"You did not just accuse me of what I think you did," he said flatly, his voice almost too quiet to discern, closing the distance between them, until he could have reached out to touch the bare skin of her back.

Blair turned around to face him, her mouth curved into a cold smile. "Well you _are_ Chuck Bass_._"

For an insane moment, Blair was convinced that he was going to raise a hand to her. And for an even more insane moment, Blair would have liked him to. Anything to stop the look of disappointment and incredulity that underpinned his fury. But, after a minute of staring into his dark eyes with a look of challenge in her eyes, when he did reach out to touch her, it was only to clutch her arms, to hold her still.

"And I have no fucking idea who _you_ are anymore."

Surely him hitting her would have hurt less than that statement. Blair felt her eyes tear up, cursing her propensity to cry in moments of anger. She wanted desperately to turn away from him, but his hands on her arms held her in place. So instead, she focused on the wall behind him.

"Blair," he said, more gently before. "What's going on? You're not leaving your room – you're flunking English - "

"I got a D," Blair spat. "I'm not failing."

Chuck dropped his hands from her arms, sighing slightly and sitting on the sofa. "I don't care what mark you get. I care that it's not bothering you…or that you're pretending it's not. I care that you're hiding from me."

It was strange that in the moment when Chuck felt his anger drop away, Blair should become so indignant at him. Perhaps it was the weakness he had showed in sitting down. He usually understood power dynamics better than that, but the sight of her flailing around in the place, which she had always dreamed of, had shaken him deeply. It was too much to see that she had been wasting away in this ridiculous room with its floral couch when he had thrown Princeton away in order to help her mother. Now it seemed that another Waldorf needed to be put back together by him, and for the life of him, Chuck had no idea where to begin.

It was too much to see that no matter how intense their physical connexion still was, they could have been at opposite sides of the moon for all the emotional intimacy they had at that moment. Taking in Blair's hard eyes, Chuck felt suddenly like weeping.

"You're upset about _my _hiding things from you?" she spat, staring down at him with eyes still streaming. She wiped angrily at her tears. "Let's talk about Princeton, Chuck."

"There's nothing to tell," he said weakly.

"You dropped out of school. And you're lecturing me about letting my GPA drop?"

"I haven't dropped out of school," Chuck said defensively. "I'm taking a…leave of absence."

"Why?"

There it was, the moment he had known would come if he stood before her. (Granted, it had been levelled at the moment when he was sitting down). Looking up at her, seeing in her eyes the slightest hint of hope that he might be honest with her, Chuck realized that this entire enterprise had been a mistake. How could he tell her about Eleanor's condition? How could he avoid her questions and still expect her to allow him to re-enter the hidden space behind her eyes when he had exiled her? Looking down at his hands on his lap, he sighed heavily.

"I had some business to attend to."

It sounded even lamer than when he had said the same thing to Nate. To his surprise, Blair seemed to lose any vestige of fight from her small frame. She sat on the low table that lay before the couch, her knees nearly touching his. Mirroring his stance, she lowered her head to stare at her hands.

"What's happening to us, Chuck?" she whispered, peering up at him from under her eyelashes.

Shaking his head mutely, he allowed the now creased assignment that had provoked such anger in him to fall to the ground between them.

"I don't know," he said flatly, before reaching out to take one her hands in his. Running his fingers over her knuckles, realizing that for once the feeling of his skin on hers would not fix anything.

"Is it…I mean are we…are we over?" Blair asked, her voice cracking.

Chuck jumped, as if her words had surprised him deeply. For an instant he dropped her hand and mouthed inarticulately at her. The force of articulating her biggest fear had caused any restraint to fall away from Blair, tears falling down her cheeks as she wrapped her arms around her stomach. Without quite knowing what to say, Chuck knelt in front of her, running his hands over her legs.

"We can't be over," he whispered back. "I won't allow it."

Blair raised her face to look at his. "Well we can't keep going on like this. I need you to trust me. Tell me what's going on."

For a moment, Chuck considered telling her the truth. He knew that was what her eyes were pleading for him to do. But how was he meant to say the words? How could he take this battered, vulnerable woman in his arms and tell her that her mother had cancer? A part of him was terrified that this creature that sat before him in tears would break altogether at the news. And then any hope he had of finding his Blair again would be dashed forever.

"I can't," he said softly, sitting back on his heels.

She averted her face, biting her lip hard enough that he feared she might draw blood. "Then I think you should go."

"Blair."

He didn't know what to say. And he hated that he said her name with such pitiful desperation. Still kneeling like a fool before her, he noticed suddenly that the cool light of dawn had caused the glow of the warm lamps to disappear. Had he been able to salvage another minute alone in her company, perhaps things might have been alright. But, at that moment, the sound of a key in the lock told him that their time was to interrupted: that resolution would be impossible.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said a meek voice from the door, taking in Chuck's bare chest and Blair's flimsy nightie with flaming red cheeks. "I had my concert…I was just…the party went late…I can leave."

Searching Blair's face for some sign that she wouldn't allow him to walk out of the door without putting things right between them, he found that she still refused to meet his eyes. With a twisting sense of horror, he realized that she was sending him away, that the one door he had never thought would ever be closed on him was sliding shut. It was suddenly unbearable to be in this claustrophobic room with Blair's roommate standing there so embarrassed and with this strange facsimile of Blair turning away from him. Standing up and breaking all contact with her, he gathered up his discarded clothes.

"Don't bother," he said flatly, pushing rudely passed the girl who held a ridiculous cello case in her hand. "I was just leaving."

With that, the door closed, leaving Melinda alone in the room with Blair. For a moment, Blair sat stock-still on the table, before standing up and walking back over to the window.

Standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, Melinda leant her cello against the sofa, watching Blair's exposed back and frowning at the sight of a bruise forming. "Blair…are you okay? Who was that guy?"

"No one," Blair said flatly, before walking into her bedroom and slamming the door.

Melinda made a few, tentative steps towards the door, cursing her inability to every say the right thing, hating the feeling that someone else was in pain because of her ineptitude. She was about to knock on the door when she heard what sounded like muffled sobs. She had never heard crying of such intensity, and she knew that if even tried to broach the threshold of the room, Blair would horrified by the intrusion – would feel as if she had to explain her reaction, explain her history outside of those passing comments about her best friends Serena, and a girl she once made a documentary about a woman's shelter with. It made perfect sense, somehow, that there should be a boy involved somehow, although Melinda couldn't recall Blair ever mentioning his name.

So, Melinda did the only thing that she really knew how to do: she opened her cello case and began to play.

For a moment, as the wavering notes passed from her hands into Blair's room, Melinda heard a pause in the sobbing that Blair had been hiding in her pillow.

And soon, Melinda heard the sound of Blair moving from her bed to rest against the wooden door to listen to the music as the sun rose higher still in the Yale-blue sky.

*

Chuck was exhausted.

It was a new feeling, this exhaustion that seeped into the bones and made it impossible to move or even issue commands to Arthur, who glanced repeatedly at the rear-view mirror at Chuck who sat in the backseat utterly motionless. It had not taken much time for Chuck to intensely regret the way his conversation with Blair had passed. Several times during the journey back to New Haven, Chuck pulled out his mobile telephone to call her. But each time, Chuck slipped it back into his pocket, aware that any conversation he had with her would end the same way their fight had: with her demanding an answer that he refused to give.

The truth seemed clearer now, as the limousine pulled up before the Archibald residence. Chuck had been scared of telling Blair the truth about Eleanor: scared of what would happen when Blair found out that he had been lying to her about her mother's health, scared that she would not be able to deal with it, scared that she would fall apart, the way he had in the light of Bart's death. And most of all, he had been scared by what he had seen in that room. He was scared that this process of losing her was already beginning, that it couldn't be undone. That all of his efforts of protecting her in the cocoon of Yale, of allowing her to live her dream when all he wanted to do was get to his knees and beg her to live only for him – that all of it would come to nothing.

He recalled how hard he had tried to perfect her dream of both of them at Yale. How he had stood in front of Dan, at a time when their friendship was a new and fragile thing, and demanded that he give up his space at Yale, so that Chuck could take it.

"**You're a smart guy Humphrey – you just got into Yale for fuck's sake. Are you seriously telling me that you don't understand the terms of a simple agreement?"**

"_Oh I understand your agreement," _Dan had said it in such a disdainful tone, making Chuck feel a swoop of shame at a time when he had considered himself shameless_. "I just don't understand how you can possibly imagine that I would, under any circumstances, agree to be brought by you." _

"_I'm not buying you, Dan." _

"_No, you're not. Because I can't give up my future just because it will make your socks roll up and down."_

Even at the time, Chuck had thought that was a fantastic way of putting it. Even as he contemplated the way he had left Blair, sitting slumped on the table, sending him away because his lies were worthless to her, he gained some comfort from the fact that Dan Humphrey would not give up on her. For some unknown reason, the boy that both Chuck and Blair had tortured mercilessly during high school, seemed to see something in both of them that was worth watching over.

For the life of him, Chuck could not understand why.

It was the first time that Chuck had really missed Princeton since he had left its cool walls and severe Professors. The style of teaching – so imperious and tyrannical – had not really suited him. But sitting in history classes and making sense of the feats of great men had seemed to be a pretty good way to pass some time. For a moment he regretted sending in that letter (at Eric's behest) informing them that he would be suspending his candidature for a semester. Right now, the thought of leaving the crazy Waldorf matriarch to her own devises was appealing.

Or perhaps, Chuck mused as he opened the front door of Nate's house, he would start living the billionaire lifestyle with abandon? He could charter the Bass Jet to take him to Monaco. He could set up shop at the poker table (no one could match Chuck Bass' poker face). He would ensure that the game had some outrageously wasteful buy-in rate. And then he would drink himself into a stupor.

He remembered hearing about Prince Jefri Bolkiah, who was the finance minister of Brunei while Bart was at the helm of Bass Empire. More than once, Bart had been invited onto the Prince's plane for a party that was more Bacchian rite than low-key get together. The consummate hedonist, Prince Jefri used to use his Boeing 747 to carry polo ponies – and had even been the proud owner of two yachts called the "tits".[1]

Bart had been stern during these conversations, wanting to impress upon Chuck, by describing Prince Jefri's downfall, that this sort of lifestyle would never be sustainable, would end in derision and humiliation. All Chuck could think of was that he could probably give Prince Jefri a run for his money. Besides, what did he really have to stick around for?

Chuck was on the verge of making the phone call that would set his partly formed plan into motion when he heard a strange scraping noise form the next room.

With a grim half-smile, as if he had been looking for an excuse to let out some pent-up aggression, Chuck looked down to his left and saw that the Captain's collection of antique walking-sticks still sat in an iron holder at the door. Reaching out for a particularly brutal specimen, Chuck lifted it over his shoulder, as if he were swinging for a baseball, and stalked down the hall, ready to open a can of whoop-ass on the intruder who had dared to enter his best friend's house.

"Oh hey man," a bare-chested Nate said, eating peanut butter from a jar and looking entirely unconcerned with the fact Chuck was about to beat him to death with a walking stick. "Where've you been? I got in last night."

"You fucking scared me," Chuck shouted, allowing the stick to fall to his side. "I was this close - " he held his fingers less than a centimetre apart " – to killing you."

Nate looked him up and down, taking in his bloodshot eyes and the half-unbuttoned shirt he had been wearing for over a day. "Yeah, I could probably have taken you."

With heart still hammering with adrenaline, Chuck followed Nate into the kitchen, shaking his head when Nate offered him the jar of peanut butter. Trying to make sense of the situation, Chuck stared at his friend who smiled blandly back at him.

Nate looked obscenely healthy – always the glowing picture of good health – and the Californian sun seemed to have turned him a permanent shade of bronze. It had also made his hair even blonder. Chuck noticed, with a slight pang, that Nate just seemed _happy_. Happy and at peace in a way and to an extent that Chuck had only known when he and Blair were alone in Innisfree, making love in the pool house with the smell of jasmine in the air. Until that week, Chuck had assumed that he was just not built for peacefulness.

"California seems to agree with you," Chuck murmured, as Nate offered him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that he had put together despite Chuck's refusal.

Nate grinned at him. "And sleeping in a dumpster really _doesn't_ agree with you. Where have you been, man?" Nate suddenly frowned. "Man…I mean…you haven't been…you weren't _with _someone were you."

"Your faith in me is really heart-warming," Chuck spat, glaring at Nate before standing up and striding purposefully towards the liquor cabinet. He saw Nate glance at the clock on the wall, but something in his face must have told the boy not to comment on the early hour. Pouring two glasses of scotch,

"So where were you?" Nate asked, sniffing the scotch before taking a tiny, unwilling sip.

"I was at Yale."

"Oh yeah?" Nate offered him another infuriating smile. "Visiting the missus? I bet Blair's room-mates love when you come to visit."

"Roommate," Chuck corrected moodily, sipping his drink. "And it was the first time I'd gone to visit."

Nate blinked at him, taken aback. "Wow."

"Well said," Chuck grumbled, draining his glass.

He could almost see Nate's mind switch gears into "Dealing With Chuck" mode. No matter how fraught his relationship with Nate became, no one was better at drawing things out of Chuck. Dan may have been preternaturally gifted at offering insight, but there was something to be said for Nate's open-minded gentleness. Chuck realized, suddenly, that he had really missed Nate. And it was even worse when you factored in that Nate would never have any trouble in finding a dozen friends who he could share confidences with. He was just that sort of guy. Chuck had always felt lucky that someone who could have been friends with anyone chose to be his best friend.

"So what are you doing here, Nathaniel?" Chuck asked glumly.

Nate shot him a bemused look. "I'm here to see you. I knew you were staying here, and I wanted to make sure everything was cool. I miss hanging with you."

It was strange that this pronouncement should shock Chuck so deeply, but for a minute, Chuck could scarcely find the words to convey his gratitude. But of course, he mastered himself in time.

"I suppose I can find room for you in the Bass cave," he shrugged.

Nate rolled his eyes. "Dude. _My _house."

"Yes," Chuck shrugged. "But my name sounds cooler."

For a while, they sat catching up on what they had missed, Nate demolishing his sandwich and making another ("I've reached this whole new level with my running. But I'm hungry, like, all the time."). Although he asked Nate as many questions as possible to avoid talking about Blair, Chuck knew that Nate wouldn't be satisfied until Chuck explained the entire situation to him.

"So man," Nate said carefully. "Yesterday was your first time at Yale?"

Chuck attempted to smirk, ignoring Nate's pointed look at his third glass of scotch. "Yep. I was a Yale virgin."

"But…I mean…that couldn't have been the first time you'd seen Blair since college started?"

Chuck's loaded silence was all the confirmation Nate needed.

"Okay," Nate said quietly. "Did something…happen…between the two of you? I mean…did you…" Nate searched his mind for a word that wouldn't be unbearably banal for Chuck and Blair's relationship. "Break-up or something?"

"We did _not_ break-up," Chuck said, his head whipping around as he slammed the glass on the kitchen counter – daring Nate to contradict him.

"Okay, okay," Nate said, holding up his hands. "So what's going on?"

"Eleanor's got cancer," Chuck said flatly, feeling a swoop of triumph at Nate's flabbergasted face.

"Oh. Okay. I wasn't expecting that."

"Neither was I," Chuck said bitterly, gesturing for Nate to refill his glass.

"And you're," Nate picked his words carefully, finally joining Chuck in his morning drinking session, "in New York. You're here…to help her."

"Pretty much."

For a moment, Nate stared at Chuck's profile. "And how's Blair dealing with this?"

At the sound of Blair's name, Chuck's eyes closed involuntarily, as if the single syllable had burned him slightly. It was a wince, really. "Blair has no fucking idea. About anything. Including what the hell she's doing to herself."

When Nate gave him a quizzical look, Chuck described what he had seen at Yale: the way Blair refused to get out of bed, the way her clothes lay in disarray. None of it really seemed to hit home with Nate until he mentioned that she had received a D in an English assignment. That, finally, seemed to shake Nate to the core. For a while, they fell into a moody silence, both drinking with abandon.

"You know," Nate said contemplatively. "Not a day goes by that I don't thank god that it's you and not me."

Chuck's head whipped around sharply, glaring at his oldest friend. "What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean."

Nate held up his hands, as if to ward Chuck off. "Hear me out. I mean…do you ever think about it? What would have happened if she and I had stayed together?"

"All the time," Chuck said flatly, before chuckling. "You really should have fucking warned me, Nathaniel. What this whole relationship thing was about. What I was getting myself into."

"But I couldn't have," Nate said gently. "Because what you and Blair have is a whole new league."

"And yet, here we are. About to break up because of fucking college…just like a thousand other high school couples."

Nate shook his head. "God…you and Blair. You're just too stubborn for your own good."

Chuck laughed mirthlessly, shaking his head at the apple Nate offered him. "This isn't stubbornness. It's reality."

"No, it's not. Now look – I don't want to put my neck on the line here. I know how much you enjoy people butting into your business. This whole thing with Eleanor – that sucks, man. I get that your hands are tied. But by the sounds of things that's not the problem…I mean you didn't have to leave Princeton to help Eleanor. So why did you do it?"

"You tell me Sigmund," Chuck said sarcastically, but Nate could tell that he was listening intensely.

"You did it because you wanted have a connection to Blair. Because what you guys have is the most important thing. And it kind of sounds like Blair's feeling the same thing. It's so simple, so obvious that neither of you see it. When you guys are together, you're happy. When you're apart, you're miserable."

"So what's your solution, Nathaniel?"

Nate gave him a look of such wide-eyed innocence that Chuck felt a wave of affection for his old friend and his simple way of looking at things. "Ask her to be with you."

Chuck stared at him incredulously. "You want me to ask Blair to leave Yale?"

Nate shrugged. "Not necessarily. I mean, dude – you're a billionaire. Why don't you just move to New Haven? You can ask her to move in with you…or I don't know…you could see if she would consider transferring or something."

"I'm not asking Blair to give up her dream," Chuck said flatly.

"But you're her dream," Nate said, daring Chuck to laugh at him.

"That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard."

"But it's true," Nate said, staring down at his now empty glass and turning to look at the fire. "You know that Yale wasn't the whole dream."

"I do recall something about getting engaged to you."

"And look how far off the mark that turned out to be. Because me and Blair – I mean in a year or whatever you guys have totally blotted out what Blair and I had. I mean seriously. I wouldn't even rank a mention anymore."

For a long time, Chuck stared into his drink, as if waiting for inspiration to come. Nate found himself observing the way the halogen lights of the kitchen turned Chuck's dark eyes a strange red colour. The last month-and-a-bit seemed to have aged him.

"You're Chuck Bass," Nate said quietly, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. "You can fix anything."

"I can't stop Eleanor from having cancer. I couldn't stop Bart from dying. I couldn't even stop the Captain's trial"

"So maybe it's time to stop feeling sorry for yourself and to start dealing with the things you _can_ fix."

Chuck smirked ruefully. "When did you start talking like Dr. Phil?"

Nate responded with mock-humility. "Well. It's kind of a Californian thing."

"We really need to get you out of that psych-ward, granola-eating state, don't we?"

*

The day Blair took to bed after Chuck's visit, Melinda tried to convince her to come the dining hall for dinner. Blair's eyes did not move from the blank and peeling wall.

"I'm not hungry."

And so, Melinda let her be.

The second day that Blair stayed in bed, Dan Humphrey tried to lure her out of her room with the promise of coffee.

But Blair merely opened one eye and stared at him blankly. "I'm not hungry."

"It's liquid," Dan said softly, staring down at her, buried under the luxurious doona Dorota had insisted she bring with her Yale.

"I'm not thirsty."

By day three, Dan – who had become a regular enough visitor to their room that he usually brought a coffee for Melinda as well – decided to try a different tact. Standing next to her bed, noticing with a wrinkled nose that she hadn't showered or changed since the day before, he put the five different types of take out he had procured on her desk. At the smell of food from the four corners of the earth, Blair groaned and pulled the blanket over her head.

"Are you trying to make me boot, Humphrey?"

"Just trying to make sure you don't die of starvation," he said, sitting down on her desk chair and settling his feet uncomfortably near her face.

"Why do you care?" Blair said sniffily, looking at his feet with distaste and sitting up slightly.

"Because if I let you die on my watch, Chuck Bass will probably kill me, follow me to the afterlife, and…well…kill me again."

She cast a glance in his direction. The biggest change in Blair since their arrival at Yale was the vacant expression she had adopted. Even Dan had always thought that Blair Waldorf had the most expressive eyes he had ever seen. He had once said something along those lines to Rufus. _Medusa wants her withering glare back._ Now though, after whatever had transpired with Chuck, her eyes seemed flat, two-dimensional things. They showed no sign of fight; they were merely counting the days as they passed.

"I think you're probably over-estimating my significance to Chuck," she said flatly.

"I don't believe that," Dan said gently, opening the box of Pad See Ew he had procured from a Thai place across campus. "And besides…you're my friend, Waldorf. And friends don't let friends die in a pool of their own filth.

She snorted at him, lifting one hand to touch her dirty hair. But, after a moment, her hand dropped back down to her side. "I'm just so tired, Dan. I just…I don't think I can get out of bed."

Dan felt a slight constriction in his heart at the use of his first name. For some reason, it reminded him of Chuck, and the way they had finally dispensed with their impersonal use of last names. He would never have imagined, when he started at St Jude's that both Blair Waldorf and Chuck Bass would not only be on a first-name basis with him, but would entrust him with their most valued possession: each other.

"So you don't have to," Dan said, wafting the smell of food in her direction. "If Mohammad won't come to the mountain…"

Blair almost smiled. "You're turning into a bigger Yenta than Cyrus. Pass me the guacamole?"

Dan tried not to look too victorious as he passed her another take-out package and a plastic fork. "This is a sprint, not a marathon, Waldorf. So make sure you pace yourself. You won't want to miss out on the tandoori chicken."

Blair rolled her eyes at him.

Despite the progress he had made by forcing her to eat, it seemed that the real low point came the next day, where she could barely respond to him, with her arms wrapped around her waist and her eyes streaming with silent tears.

"It's not meant to be like this," she whispered, again and again.

"What isn't?"

But she ignored him, repeating her mantra until Dan could no longer stand to be in her suffocating presence.

When Dan left on day five, he found Melinda hovering awkwardly by the front door. Biting her lip and working through her obvious shyness, Melinda gestured towards Blair's bedroom.

"What are we going to do about her, Dan?"

"We are going to do that which I really did _not_ want to do," Dan sighed. "We are calling the big guns."

"What are the big guns?" Melinda asked doubtfully.

Dan smiled mysteriously at her. "You'll see."

*

It was a bitterly cold day, and Dan found himself dressed in layers of wool and moving around the train platform in an attempt to stay warm.[2]

He had risen early. It had irritated Natasha, who tended to favour sleeping in until the hour had double digits. Dan could tell that he had been irritating Natasha more and more recently. Her every gesture seemed to tell him this: the way she angled away from him when she tried to kiss the back of her neck. In bed, she constantly complained that his feet were too cold. It was only a matter of time, Dan knew, when this fleeting, college relationship passed it's used by date, and Dan joined the legions of men who had been unable able to keep a hold of her.

"You going off to visit your charity case?"

"She's not a charity case," Dan snapped.

Natasha shot him a triumphant look, as if she had been hoping he would react that way. It seemed like everything he did was measured and taken note of – as if he were being graded for a test he had been unaware that he was taking. Perhaps it was Dan who was being irritated by Natasha. They seemed to have reached a point of emotional onslaught, when each only felt victory at the expense of the other.

"I'm actually going to meet Serena at the train station," he said casually, enjoying the incredulous expression on Natasha's face.

"Your girlfriend-cum-sister?" she asked, pulling on a pair of ratty old socks that made Dan turn up his nose in distaste. They probably belonged to an old boyfriend. She had probably been hoping to elicit just that response from him. "How very _Flowers in the Attic _of you."

Dan just smiled the bland smile he knew would frustrate her.

When Serena Van Der Woodsen stepped off the train, Dan saw with a sad swoop in his stomach, that she was just as breath-taking as ever. She was wearing an outfit that must have been de rigueur at Brown: low boots and high-waisted jeans with a positively ludicrous black leotard top under a strange golden weave jacket. And even though Dan could see that she was making a concerted effort to fit in with her peers, he could tell that the jeans probably cost five times what most Brown students had to live on per semester.

As she alighted the train, she offered the conductor a dazzling smile. It was about that moment, when he saw the old, balding man positively melt under her gaze, that Dan's entire demeanour hardened against her. He would not be making this easy for her.

"Dan!" she shouted.

He crossed his arms. "Yes. It's me. Very much in earshot."

Her smile faltered slightly, but when she reached him, she reached out to touch his arm lightly. "It's nice to see you. You look great."

"Thanks."

Serena looked at him for a moment, taking in his stiff stance. Pursing her lips slightly, in a way that reminded him immediately of Lily, Serena tried to mirror his businesslike stance.

"Well. Let's go, then."

They trudged to Blair's room in silence. But when they passed the chair which Chuck had unceremoniously kicked the previous week, Dan found himself reaching out to stop Serena.

"I don't think I've really…I mean…I don't think I was clear enough about what's going on."

Serena shot him a puzzled look. "You said Blair was having a rough time at college and really needed me to come visit her."

Dan almost smiled at her, feeling his heart thaw slightly. "I know what I said…I knew it wouldn't take much to convince you to come. But…I think it's all a lot bigger than we…well than I really understand."

"How so?" Serena asked, noting the way his eyes fell on a chair that no one had bothered righting.

"There's a…Chuck thing going on."

Serena didn't seem particularly surprised. "About how he's dropped out of Princeton?"

"Wait – you _knew?_"

"I'd heard," Serena shrugged.

"And – what? It was too much effort to call?"

Serena seemed to have reached her limit with Dan's attitude. "Yeah, because you and I have been having such nice conversations recently."

Dan deflated slightly. "I suppose. Anyway…he came to visit the other week. And it was the first time he'd come to see Blair since college started."

"Wait – are you serious?"

Dan nodded. "I don't really know what happened, but ever since…I mean she just doesn't get out of bed. She can't move or do anything."

If he had expected Serena to waiver slightly, he would have been disappointed. If anything, the news that Blair's problems ran deeper than homesickness and the ability to make new friends, Serena's shoulders squared and her eyes became even more determined.

Without waiting for Dan, she marched down the hallway to Blair's room.

Dan noticed, as Serena swanned in and offered Melinda another mega-watt smile, the way even girls seemed to fall prey to Serena's infectious charm. Within a moment, Melinda was offering her one of the chocolate cookies she had put out on a plate for the "big gun" visitor who would solve all her roommate's problems. Dan felt a slight embarrassment for Melinda as she offered around those pathetic cookies on the ugly plate, but if Serena, who was used to the finest food on the most expensive china, thought the girl pathetic, she hid it admirably.

Walking purposefully towards Blair's room, Serena turned to look at Dan and Melinda. "Wish me luck," she winked.

"Cookie?" Melinda asked Dan, wiping at the crumbs that had collected not only on her upper lip but also in her right eyebrow.

"Nah," Dan said, flopping down on the couch. "I'm good."

When Serena entered Blair's room, it took a moment for her to find a path from the doorway to her bed. Sitting down on the edge of the bed and wrapping her arm around the lump that she assumed was her best friend, Serena was suddenly reminded of when they were little kids, and used to climb into the doona covers with torches and tell each other secrets.

Resting her head on Blair's shoulder – still entirely hidden under the doona – Serena murmured, "I like what you've done with the place, B."

With agonising slowness, Blair pulled the doona down until her white face was visible. "Serena? What are you doing here?"

Serena smiled at her old friend, reaching out to touch one of her cheeks. "I'm here to see Yale's biggest tourist attraction: the Incredible Sleeping Woman."

Blair cast a desultory look around the room. "I haven't gotten around to…"

"Putting away your clothes?" Serena asked with a raised eyebrow. "Hi, I'm Serena…the same Serena who knew you when you ate carbs and had a Care Bear. When have you _ever_ not found the time to be anally retentive?"

Blair ignored her. "How's Brown?"

Serena couldn't help but grin at her. "Exhilarating, exhausting, amazing. Totally different to what I expected. Better than I expected." Serena looked at Blair's sagging mouth and lifeless eyes. "What about Yale?"

"It's fine," she said mechanically.

"I can see that," Serena responded, smoothing the doona around Blair's prone form, watching as her head turned slightly away from the light that spilt through the drawn curtains. "Dan told me that Chuck came to visit you."

Blair closed her eyes. "We had a huge fight."

"You've had fights before," Serena said soothingly, wiping away at a tear escaped from Blair's already bloodshot eyes.

"This is different, S. He doesn't need me anymore. He doesn't call me. He doesn't visit me. He doesn't tell me what's happening in his head. Why should he? Look at me."

"What do you mean?" Serena asked, feeling her own eyes tear up in sympathy. She had never seen Blair so…defeated before.

"I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't even know who I am anymore."

"You're Queen B."

"No I'm not. I'm Queen – D. That's what I am," she said, noting Serena's confused look. "I'm going fail my subjects, S. I got a _D._ And Chuck saw it…and now he thinks I'm some idiot who he can't tell anything to."

"Hey," Serena protested. "That's my best friend you're talking about."

Blair sat up, putting distance between them. "This isn't how it's supposed to be. I'm not meant to fall to pieces because my high school boyfriend doesn't come to visit me. This is what is _meant_ to happen. I'm _meant _to go off and be independent and ace my classes. But it's just not working. I'm just this pathetic girl who doesn't even go to class – whose going to flunk out of Yale. And you know what the worst part is?"

"What's the worst part?"

"I don't even care, Serena. I don't care. All I can think about is whether that Chuck Bass-tard is going to break up with me. I love him so much. It just…it consumes me." [3] She set her desperate eyes on Serena's. "This is my dream…and now all I want to do is throw it away for a guy. Gloria Steinem would be rolling in her grave."

"I'm pretty sure she's alive, B."

"Whatever," Blair gestured dismissively.

"Have you spoken to Chuck about all this?"

Finally, some of Blair's old spark seemed to return. With eyes flashing, she frowned to herself. "No. If he's doing fine without me, then I am doing fine without him. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing how pathetic I am."

"Wow. That sounds like a really solid plan, B. Sitting here and being miserable will really teach him a lesson."

Blair shot her an irritated look, crossing her arms. "Well it's better than chasing after him like a psychopathic stalker and begging him to tell me what's happening with him." Blair seemed to be searching her mind for something, until finally it occurred to her. "_Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven_!"

It took a lot for Serena to maintain her serious face at that proclamation. But, after years of dealing with Blair's theatrics, Serena knew that the worst possible thing to do when Blair was in this state was to laugh.

"This isn't that, B," Serena said, sharply. "Look at me – tell me that after all that you and Chuck have gone through, after every mistake, every untruth, every…everything. After all of it, tell me you're not going to throw it all away because of pride."

"It's not pride," Blair spat. "It's the way things are _meant_ to - "

When Serena interrupted, her voice was harsher than she had intended. "Oh don't give me that line about how things are meant to be. You're following a stupid plan you laid down for yourself before you even knew what life was. If you feel alive with Chuck, than _that's_ living. Because you're sure as hell not living by lying in bed feeling sorry for yourself."

During Serena's speech, Blair had turned to stare at some distant point, showing Serena only her profile, her cheek. Perhaps Serena's words had felt like a slap, and she had displayed her cheek so that her friend could finish the job. Or perhaps, she was watching the history of her relationship with Chuck in technicolour before her eyes.

Adopting a more gentle tone, Serena reached out to put a hand on Blair's knee. "People will say that chasing after what you want is immature or stupid. But those people probably haven't felt alive for a minute. You're so special, B. I know you'll make a difference whatever you do. So what if you deviate from The Plan? Make a new plan. Make a mistake. Just find a way to be happy. Now. In this life."[4].

For a moment, Blair sat lost in thought, and Serena was convinced that her words had fallen on deaf ears. Then, just as suddenly, she shook her head as if to clear it and kicked off the doona, climbing over Serena's legs without saying a word.

Thrown by the silence of Blair's bearing, Serena watched as Blair marched over to her closet.

"What are you doing?" Serena asked.

Blair threw her a searing glance, as if it should be obvious. "I'm going to New York."

Serena tried to hide the smile of victory that threatened to burst across her face. "And?"

"And I'm going to hunt down Chuck, kick him in the shin, and tie him up until he tells me what's going on."

Serena ducked out of the way as a stray blouse flew towards her head. "And then?"

Blair sat back on her heels, frowning slightly. "This room is such a mess," she said contemplatively, before settling her eyes on Serena. "Then, I'm going to find my version of the cello."

"Okay," Serena said dubiously. "I don't really know what that means, but I love the enthusiasm. Why don't I pack and you shower?"

With a sudden burst of enthusiasm, Blair jumped to her feet and hurried off to the bathroom, pausing on the way to reach out and touch Serena's blonde hair with a small smile. "You always come back, don't you?"

"I'll always come back for you, Blair. So what do you want me to pack?"

For a moment, holding her toiletries in one hand and a towel in the other, Blair cocked her head to the side and looked around the messy room. Her eyes fell to the stack of books on her desk and the small Yale flag that hung on the back of the chair. Biting her lip, she nodded slightly to herself.

"All of it," she said decisively. "Oh…and give me my phone. I think it's time I called in my own private investigator."

"That Mike guy?" Serena asked. "I'm pretty sure that Chuck is paying for his kid's college education."

Blair snorted derisively. "Who needs some hard-boiled ex-con when I've got Dorota?"

*

It had been over a week since Chuck had heard from Blair, and for the first time, he started considering the possibility that they might not weather this. Although Nate urged him to call her before he flew back to California, Chuck knew that until Eleanor was willing to end his silence, he and Blair would once more reach a stalemate.

And yet, even though he slept most of the day and found himself trapped in a cycle of painful memories – of Bart's disappointment in him, of Blair kissing Nate at Cotillion, of his walking away from her after Bart's wake replicated over and over in the darkest spaces of his brain – he continued to drag himself out of bed to help Eleanor with whatever task she had for him.

She was really shameless in her exploitation of him. He would travel around New York performing those errands she couldn't complete while she wrangled with Dr. Wong over when she was to start her chemotherapy treatment. At one point, he had even allowed Laurel, Eleanor's fashion henchwoman, to use him as a sizing model for a pair of men's slacks that Eleanor refused to halt the production of. More than once, the models in Eleanor's workshop had cast appreciative looks in his direction – had asked him for a drink.

Each time he stared at them blankly, as if uncertain what their intentions were – not comprehending their meaning.

Although he knew that he and Blair stood on the edge of a threatening precipice, he harboured a strange sort of superstitious conviction that if he continued his dogged attempts to help Eleanor that somehow Blair would know that his devotion to her had not ebbed. And yet, each night, he was visited by nightmares of the Blair he had seen coming apart at the seams at Yale. She would always disappear at the end and he would awake gasping, reaching out to the empty space next to him in bed.

"You're being awfully quiet today," Eleanor said, casting a sidelong glance at Chuck as he sat forward in the chair.

Chuck noted to his annoyance that he had already read all of Dr. Evan Wong's magazines. He now possessed all the knowledge he needed to _Make Him Beg For More In Bed_ and to be _Flirty and Fabulous When Freezing._

"I hadn't realized how much you enjoyed my banter."

Eleanor sniffed slightly, pulling out a mint. "I've gotten used to phasing in out is all."

"Well I'm running out of material. We have been to the exact same appointment at the exact same doctor twice."

"Maybe you should bring a book next time," Eleanor said sarcastically.

"That's a great idea," Chuck said, just as sarcastically. "I know how much you love living in a fantasy world."

Eleanor peered at him over the tops of her glasses. "If you've got something to say, Charles. You should get on with. Lord knows I won't be able to stop you from offering your opinion."

For a moment, Chuck stared at her face, noting to his surprise that her eyes were rimmed with darkness. She mustn't have been sleeping well. It made sense. Last time they were here, Dr Wong had pencilled in a start-date for chemotherapy in the next two weeks. How Eleanor imagined she would be able to hide this from her husband – and Blair, when Thanksgiving came around – Chuck had no idea. There was no end to her delusion.

As Chuck held her eyes, he noticed suddenly that her lip trembled slightly. For a moment, it seemed as if his entire being was focused on that single twitch: a chink in the armour of Eleanor Waldorf. The merest sign of weakness that usually signalled to Chuck where he would strike. And yet, Chuck felt no desire to be cruel. Rather, he felt a sudden expansive sympathy for this proud woman who was facing the most terrifying reality of her life.

"You know, Eleanor," he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. "I know that you've been dealt a really shit hand. And I'd say it was unfair, but we both know that the world's a pretty shitty, unfair place sometimes."

"Get to the point, Charles."

He took a deep breath. "I'm not covering for you anymore, Eleanor. Not because I'm a stranger to deception or because I've lost interest. But because I think you're shit-scared. And I think that's why you don't want to tell Blair or Cyrus or anyone at work. But you need to let your family be there for you."

For a moment, Eleanor stared at him, frozen. Then, with a shuddering breath, she let out a laugh that was like a cold blast of air. "And what makes you think that my family will be there for me?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You've had a pretty horrific run of it with families, Chuck," she said, pausing slightly over the use of his nickname. "You don't have any illusions about people. This isn't what Cyrus signed up for. Lord knows I haven't given Blair much reason to be steadfast through this. I don't think I'd stay around myself if I had the option."

"That's bullshit," he said flatly.

"Tell me what you really think, Charles. Don't self-censor."

He stared straight ahead, not looking at her, as if seeing some sort of picture projected onto the waiting-room wall. "That's bullshit. Because you don't give up on people, Eleanor. Just like Blair."

"Blair's a child."

"No. She's not. I mean she's stubborn like a child. And she has tantrums like a child. But she looks after people. It's…it's what she does. And to suggest that she would not do the same for you – even if you don't deserve it – is an insult to her."

Eleanor said nothing, so Chuck stood up and put his hands deep in his pockets. "I'm going outside to have a cigarette. You have to the end of the week to tell Blair, or I will. Send my regards to Dr. Wong."

It this had been a movie, Chuck mused as he swaggered out of the waiting room (leaving a gob-smacked Eleanor behind him), he fancied that strains of "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" would be providing the soundtrack.

Nate had been right; the simple act of standing up to Eleanor had been invigorating. As he stepped outside, he fancied that he was floating. Pulling out his silver lighter, he slipped a cigarette into his mouth, musing that they could really use his negotiation skills in the Middle East.

"Chuck?"

In a strange way, it had been inevitable, Chuck supposed, freezing where he stood, unable to light his cigarette. Turning around, as if in slow motion, he saw to his horror that Blair Waldorf was standing to his right, staring between him and the large modern building. For a moment, Chuck wondered how she had known where to find him, until he saw a nervous-looking Dorota wringing her hands and standing next to a taxi. The Polish intelligence agency could really have used Blair's faithful sidekick, he mused.

"What is this place? What are you doing here?" And then, Blair's face twisted into something quite alien.

He followed the line of her vision, until he saw the sign that made her freeze this way.

Dr. Evan Wong Oncologist

It was then he realized that she would not be deceived anymore. From the moment she realized they were standing outside one of the most respected cancer-specialists in New York, Blair would never be in the dark again.

Still, Blair stood frozen, scarcely able to draw breath.

Chuck tried to move towards her, but for the life of him, he couldn't seem to move fast enough.

"No," she whispered, sagging before his eyes. "No."

When he finally reached her, he felt as if time had sped away while he tried to wade through the space between them. He fancied he could see galaxies form and disappear, that ages had passed. By the time he reached her, just in time to catch her before her legs gave out from under her, he felt as if he had aged decades.

He wrapped his arms around her, not minding when her fingers clawed at him, as if trying to root out the source of the cancer she imagined was eating him from the inside. Her face was still frozen in this horrified mask that had come upon her with the realization. And Chuck knew that even when he found the words to assure her that he was quite alright, she would then find out that Eleanor was ill.

For a fleeting moment, Chuck wished that it had in fact been him. But of course, it was a hollow gesture; he never would have traded a moment with Blair for her mother's life.

"Tell me it's not true," she whispered into his chest, her fingers still spasming on his shirt. "Tell me it's not true. Anyone. Anyone but you."

Chuck glanced at the building. It seemed that Eleanor was not going to spare him this confrontation. Running his hands down her back, wanting to freeze this moment, even as it pained him. Seeing her coming unravelled at the thought of his suffering, while being hugely distressing, was also the most romantic, thrilling sight he had ever had. He knew that soon enough, when the truth came out, she would be furious at him. So seeing her so unquestioningly in love with him was a comfort, especially after their recent fight.

"Blair," he said hoarsely. "It's not me. It's…not me. Listen to me – I'm fine. I'm fine."

Blair drew in a gasping breath, trying to repress the panic that had blossomed insider her chest. Pressing her palms to his chest, as if trying to assure herself that he was in once piece, she searched his face for a hint of falsehood. "You're fine?"

"I'm fine," he whispered, picking up her hand and kissing her on the palm.

"Don't you _ever_ scare me like that again!" she said, hitting him square in the chest that only a moment before she had been touching with so much tenderness. He did nothing to ward off her assault. "So, what are you doing here?" She seemed to remember that she was angry with him, because her entire bearing shifted, crossing her arms and stepping back from him. "What is going on?"

Uncertain where to begin, Chuck's eyes travelled once more to the entry of the building. There would be no escape from this conversation, Chuck saw that immediately. It was clear from her posture and from the arrogant tilt of her chin, which she had regained the instant he had assured her that he was not sick. She demanded satisfaction, and he would not leave this curb until she pulled the secret from him.

"I'm not sick," he said again, lost for words for possibly the first time in his life.

"No. But I am."

As one, he and Blair turned to face Eleanor, who had emerged from the building in the nick of time. Chuck saw with a swoop of regret that she held his coat in her hand – she had come out here to make sure that he was warm enough. And yet, despite this gesture, all Chuck could do was reach towards Blair. She hardly seemed aware of his hand and yet, she unthinkingly clasped his hand – so hard that he felt his bones grind against each other.

Blair seemed completely uncomprehending, staring at her mother as she shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

"Blair," Eleanor said stiffly. "I think that maybe we should go somewhere to talk."

*

[1] Stories of Prince Jefri of Brunei are a mere Google search away. I studied a case between the Prince and KPMG this semester at law school. It's difficult not to envy the lifestyle, to be honest. But it was sickeningly decadent.

[2] A little snippit taken from Nancy Horan's _Loving Frank._

[3] I just loved that line in the _Gossip Girl_ season 2 finale. Those were the days.

[4] Based on Pacey's _Dawson's Creek_ finale speech. I'm really feeling the finales this chapter.

A/N: So now I'm fully updated with what was published before I took this down. So…the next step is _adding new chapters_. I hope that pleases everyone; I had a new wave of inspiration. I'm also working on _The Yellow Wood._


	6. Chapter 6: If You Forget Me

A/N: A wave of inspiration, and a need to take a break from my other writing endeavours led to this. It starts off with a section from the epilogues I had begun writing, but…all in all…this is a new chapter! I hope you enjoy.

_Lightness and Weight_

Sequel to _The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair_

**Chapter Six:**** If You Forget Me**

I want you to know

_One thing._

_You know how this is:_

_If I look_

_At the crystal moon, at the red branch_

_Of the slow autumn at my window,_

_If I touch_

_Near the fire_

_The impalpable ash_

_Or the wrinkled body of the log,_

_Everything carries me to you,_

_As if everything that exists,_

_Aromas, light, metals,_

_Were little boats_

_That sail_

_Towards those isles of yours that wait for me._

_Well, now,_

_If little by little you stop loving me_

_I shall stop loving you little by little._

_If suddenly_

_You forget me_

_Do not look for me_

_For I shall already have forgotten you._

_If you think it long and mad,_

_The wind of banners_

_That passes through my life,_

_And you decide to leave me at the shore_

_Of the heart where I have roots,_

_Remember_

_That on that day,_

_At that hour,_

_I shall lift my arms_

_And my roots will set off_

_To seek another land._

_But,_

_If each day,_

_Each hour,_

_You feel that you were destined for me_

_With implacable sweetness,_

_If each day a flower_

_Climbs up to your lips to seek me,_

_A my love, ah my own,_

_In me all that fire is repeated,_

_In me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,_

_My love feeds on your love, beloved,_

_And as long as you life it will be in your arms_

Without leaving mine.

- Pablo Neruda, "If You Forget Me."

*

The moments after "the moment that changes everything" are often still and almost peaceful. Carried on the tails of even the most violent exposure is a sense of peace, of stillness: the liberating realization that the worst has happened, so what does one have left to fear?

Chuck glanced at Blair as he opened the door to the Archibald's house. It was a strange sensation, crossing the threshold of the place with Blair Waldorf, who most people had assumed would one day be the mistress of the place. Noting that Blair had yet to break this strange silence that had come upon her when they left Eleanor, Chuck found himself imagining how Blair would react if he scooped her up and carried her over the threshold. That would probably break the stony silence that had now lasted about twenty minutes.

For some reason, it hadn't seemed appropriate to say much, as they sat at an intimate wooden table in Eleanor's new favourite brunch spot, around the corner form Dr. Wong's practice.

"Charles and I have eaten here a few times, haven't we Charles?"

"We've eaten here once," Chuck said flatly, glancing at Blair's unusually slumped posture and here blank face. He found himself feeling a fresh wave of irritation at Eleanor for her gauche handling of her daughter. The last thing that she should have been doing was drawing attention to the extent of the conspiracy to keep Blair uninformed. Nothing was guaranteed to raise her ire quite like playing upon her fear of exclusion. Chuck felt a grim swell of victory when he saw Blair's eyes narrow slightly.

"Don't be silly, Charles. The first time we came to Dr. Wong's office - " She insisted on calling it an industrious 'office', rather than a resting place for sick people. " – we had coffee here."

"I don't remember," Chuck said through gritted teeth, tearing his eyes away from Blair.

It was only when he looked at Eleanor's face that he realized that she was entirely aware of what she was doing: that this was some defensive move to implicate Chuck in the entire sorry business. He saw the calculating expression behind her eyes and knew that this was no coincidence. She was trying to position him in her camp. She was trying to force him onto the defensive.

And she had never reminded him of Blair more.

Blair's arms were wrapped around her waist as she walked down the hallway. Even in her still and silent state, her eyes darted around the entry-hall – the way his had at the strange novelty of being alone in Nate's house without the Archibald family around. Chuck had insisted that she come back here with him; he had wanted to pick up her bag on the way, but had felt as if he were pushing his luck.

He threw the keys on the entry table and stretched his tired limbs. Even though the circumstances were grim, he couldn't help but feel slightly exhilarated.

"I've been staying in the guest room," he said nervously when they entered the living-room. "Nate told me to take his room. But the life-size poster of Fernando Torres seems a little bi-curious for my tastes."

Blair traced a finger over the back of the couch before coming to a stop before the naval painting that formed the central conceit of the room. It was a flat, soulless thing. And in some ways, it suited Mrs. Archibald to a tee. She would have chosen it with the Captain in mind, it would have been a slight nod to his passion, as if a picture on the wall would be enough to convince him that he had a place in this grand old house that had belonged to her father. Chuck had been sailing with the Captain – all of them had – and this flat, grey seascape made a mockery of the joy that emanated from the man when he stood at the stern of a boat, whooping and cheering with every spray. Seeing this painting every day must have seemed like a slap in the face: a reminder that Howard Archibald was one of those sad souls who denies their true calling, even as it reaches out for them and touches their shoulders.

"It's a fucking ugly painting, isn't it?" Chuck said nervously. Already certain that this conversation would end with a fight; he was self-destructive, restlessly trying to engage her. Anything would be better than this soul-destroying silence.

Blair pulled off her coat and laid it carefully on the back of an armchair before leaning against it. She shifted on the balls of her feet, the back of the chair digging into her thighs. She refused to meet his eyes, but continued blankly gazing around the room.

"You know, I'm running out of small talk," Chuck said finally, still standing in the centre of the room. "I might have to resort to performing musical numbers to fill the silence."

He hadn't really expected her to laugh, but he felt his heart sink when the silence continued and she showed no sign of having heard him.

She still avoided his eyes. "You know, I've been waiting for the anger to come. I imagined I'd be angry with you. It seems like something one should get angry about."

She had been silent for so long that Chuck had almost forgotten what her voice sounded like. "But you're not angry?" Chuck frowned.

"Not at you."

Chuck heard every creak in the floorboards as he made his way across the room. He wished he could have moved faster to her, almost taken flight. But for some reason, he found himself making his way to her with agonising slowness. Perhaps it was because she chose this moment to look up and meet his eyes.

"You know what the worst part is?" Blair asked suddenly.

"What's the worst part?" he asked.

There was as strange shift in the balance of light in the room, so that Blair's face was obscured with darkness for a moment. It was a moment of strange role reversal; of the pair of them, Blair had always been more inclined to associate him with the night, with shadows and with the endless expanse of the night's sky. For him, Blair had represented a perfect balance of light and darkness: pale skin and dark hair, the glowing centre of attention and the Machiavellian lieutenant.

But now, the darkness threatened to overcome her and he found to his surprise that there was no pleasure in her joining him in the darkness. It seemed that after all these years of groping through a dark plane and hungering for her company – tempting her little by little to leave her golden boyfriend and join him in his own dark world – he had finally learnt the true meaning of loving someone. He would have done anything to make her happy.

As he placed his hands on her cheeks and pressed his forehead against hers, he wondered vaguely whether he would be able to leave her, if that was what it took to make her happy. For the life of him, he couldn't find his way to an answer. All he could do was pray that it never came to this.

When she spoke, her lips were so close to his ear that he fancied she was speaking in the centre of his mind. "When I thought…when I thought it was you – I actually thought _'anyone but Chuck_.' I was bartering with God and I didn't even think to exclude my mother from the bargain."

"You were in shock," Chuck said reasonably, his breath on her skin.

"I was _relieved_," she said. "Even after I found out it was my mother. I was just so relieved it wasn't you." She pulled back from him slightly, searching his face for an answer. "What kind of person feels relief at the news that her mother has cancer?"

For a moment, Chuck marvelled at how far they had come: that she could expose some embarrassing, horrible thought she'd had, and tell him without hiding an inch of herself was thrilling.

"What do you want me to say, Blair?" he whispered, punctuating each word with a kiss. "I couldn't be happier to see you. Even under these circumstances, all I want to do is lock you away, even from your mother, so that I can be alone with you. Our reactions to events are complex and we can second-guess them forever. But you know what matters."

"What matters?" she asked, running her hand down the back of his neck.

"What we do," he said simply. "How we act and what we do when disaster strikes."

"And what are we going to do, Chuck?" she whispered, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

He tried to convey everything in the kiss he gave her. Every frustration of being separated from her, every fear he had for what came next. And most of all, his determination not to falter, not to run from the things that scared him.

"I thought I might make love to you," Chuck said, with the hint of a grin. "And then maybe take you out on a date."

"A date?" she teased. "Are we going to go to the movies?"

"I was thinking lunch."

"That sounds perfect," she whispered.

"I really am sorry for all this, Blair," he said suddenly.

With the ease of two people who have gotten to know each other's every contour, Blair manoeuvred him through the doorway to his bedroom, until he was lying flat on his back and she was straddling him.

"No more talking," she ordered.

*

She came in without warning, the way she always had. And Eric couldn't find it in himself to be annoyed at her.

There was something about Serena; her beauty was always surprising – a sudden addition to the room.

Eric had always thought Blair attractive. There was something about her pallor and the darkness of her eyes that was captivating, even for someone like Eric, who would never find her sexually attractive. But, it wasn't until Chuck had taken his place beside her that Eric had truly considered her beautiful.

There had been so many women. In the collection of nights that formed the majority of Chuck's adolescence days, there had been an endless parade of girls. Some were unspeakably beautiful, some where unutterably trashy.

But, it then he opened his eyes to Blair and found her beautiful. And as a strange side-effect, she had become more beautiful. Captivated by the image of herself reflected in Chuck Bass's eyes, she had seen herself as truly exceptional – and it had shown in everything she had done. Even during the days of their estrangement, her very appearance had changed as a result of their relationship.

When they had finally come together to become the single Chuck and Blair unit, the effect on her appearance had solidified. With Chuck by her side, her beauty was sharpened to a fine point. But there was a strange quality to it; they reflected the room around them with their dark features. They were beautiful together – and no one could ignore it.

But Serena's beauty had never depended on the world around her. She entered every room as a finely formed angle of light. She was always slightly separate to the world around her. It was that effect that had caused Blair so much grief before Chuck had entered her life. Serena always eclipsed her back then.

It was always the way, back in the time when Serena was a precocious bombshell, developing the appearance of a woman before she was really capable of dealing with a woman's problems. She and Lily would fight – Serena would be insolent and Lily dismissive, until Serena flew from the apartment on some new mission of mischief.

But she would always come back. Two days would pass and another stress line would form at Lily's temple. But then, at some party or other, Serena would walk in and it would be impossible to be unmoved by her ethereal beauty.

Eric had often stood in front of the mirror and taken stock of his own features. The hair that didn't quite know what to do with itself, the cool blue eyes, and the weak chin with an mean nose. He could take stock of himself with a startling objectivity. And to some extent, Serena mirrored his flaws. Her face did not have the perfect symmetry of Blair's, and her cheekbones were less defined than even Chuck's were. One of her eyes was slightly bigger than the other.

But there was a perfect unity about her that obliterated those individual flaws. Eric envied her that easy beauty. Life would have been so much simpler if he were beautiful.

"Don't worry – your sister has returned to you. And I come with Zac Efron movies and chocolate – oh, I love the darker hair on you! But your room is so dark. You should open the curtains! I wonder how Blair is going – you know there's some drama with her and Chuck? She was a wreck when I went to see her at Yale. And Dan was so cold with me. Although, I suppose that's to be expected."

Serena paused for breath, moving about the room as if she had chores to attend to as Eric sat stock-still at his desk, trying to hide the Nationwide Investigation folder that bore their father's name so obviously across the cover.

"So, how are you?"

Eric blinked at her. "I'm…good?"

Once more, the words seemed to stumble over each other as she simultaneously pulled him to his feet and hugged him. "I've missed you so much! Brown is amazing. Do I look radical?"

"Not really."

"No," Serena said cheerfully, running her fingers through his darker-than-usual hair. "I suppose I don't really look the part. But, everyone at Brown is so political. It's been really amazing. Eye opening."

"That's great," Eric said, not quite matching her enthusiasm.

"God," she smiled uncertainly. "Look at me talking about myself. How are _you?_"

"You already asked me that."

For a moment, Eric felt a strange swoop of déjà vu. It was just like the time she had appeared at the door of his hospital room at the Ostroff Centre, when his wrists had been throbbing slightly and she had been too nervous to look at him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, cringing slightly at the accusatory tone his voice had taken of its own accord.

"I'm here with Blair," she said, losing steam. Eric felt a grim satisfaction as her breeziness gave way in the face of his totem-like pose. She narrowed her eyes at him, slightly, as if something had just occurred to her. "Have you spoken to Chuck recently?"

It was Eric's turn to avoid her probing glance. "Not recently."

"So you don't know what is going on with him and Blair?"

Eric became inordinately interested in the frayed edge of his bedspread. "What's going on with him and Blair?" he said vaguely.

"Why Chuck's been avoiding Blair," Serena said leadingly.

"He hasn't exactly been avoiding her."

Serena grinned in triumph, as if he had walked into an elaborate trap. "So you _do_ know what's going on?"

"I didn't say that."

"Come on," she said, in a sugary voice he used to find hard to resist. "Let me in on it. I'm dying to know what's going on!"

There was a brief pause as Eric took the measure of her, sitting so eagerly at the foot of his bed.

"Nothing's going on."

"You're covering for him," Serena said, as if the idea were totally foreign to her. "You're protecting Chuck."

Eric shrugged, his hand straying to the hidden William Van Der Woodsen file in spite of himself. "It's not any of our business."

"When my best friend is crying over him, then it definitely is my business," Serena said sniffily.

There was a brief pause. For a single suspended moment, Eric found himself feeling absolutely nothing for her. Taking in her long blonde hair, and her silly hipster clothes, Eric felt as if he wouldn't particularly mind never seeing her again.

"No. It's not."

When her face registered surprise and a pinch of hurt, Eric felt a grim sense of satisfaction followed by a wave of guilt. It seemed to be his fate these days to alienate those closest to him. It was ironic that he would use Chuck, who he had fought with so recently, to hurt Serena.

He still remembered the fight he'd had with Chuck:

_"Where is your_ _mother buried?"_

_"I have no idea."_

_"I'm sure Jack would know. You can't avoid him forever. He's your father, after all."_

_"Perhaps we should drop it."_

_"But - "_

"That wasn't a suggestion."

_"It was what – an order?" _

It had been different with Chuck; he could hold his own, and nothing that Eric did could truly faze him. The worst that could happen was that Chuck would send him away, as indeed he had. Serena was different. So unused to anything but the wide-eyed adoration that Nate and so many others had given her, Serena was easily wounded by a stray word, or unkind intimation.

Sighing slightly, Eric rubbed a hand over the bridge of his nose. He couldn't have known it, but for an instant, Serena was reminded of Chuck. No matter how he placated her from that moment on, Serena would be unconsciously struck by the alignment between Chuck and Eric – one that excluded her entirely. There had been a time when she and Eric had shared secrets, just like there had been a time when she and Blair had done so. Somehow, no matter how hard she tried, the people around her seemed to form their own, secret alliances.

"You brought Zac Efron," Eric said, as peace offering.

"Yeah," Serena said flatly.

The afternoon was spoilt after that, but they both rode it out. Because that's what family does.

And there, under a haphazard stack of papers, sat the coordinates of the father neither of them had ever known.

*

It was strange to think that to some extent nothing at had changed that week; Eleanor still ordered him around like a servant – "I'll have a cappuccino…if you're on your way" or "if only I wasn't feeling so weak, I would never ask…" – but for some reason Chuck had not felt this happy for over a month. Because instead of carrying the tremendous weight of her secret alone, he could share a conspiratorial glance with Blair or watch as she rolled her eyes at her mother's antics.

Because no matter how many pointless tasks he would be sent on, or how disapproving Eleanor's facial expressions were when he pulled Blair aside for a quick kiss – even in spite of Cyrus' incessant hugs (the man had been, as always, the very picture of understanding and loyalty at the news) – Chuck couldn't help but grin to himself at the feeling of Blair climbing into bed next to him.

It wasn't just the rediscovery of their physical connexion that thrilled him, although lord knew that he had been missing the sex more than he'd been willing to admit. It was the simplest act of domesticity that thrilled him with its foreignness. With Anne Archibald returning to the city, it hadn't seemed right to stay at Nate's house. And so, Chuck had awkwardly broached the topic of his return to the Van Der Woodsen abode with Lily. Blair couldn't be sure what had passed between Lily and Chuck in that conversation, but she had seen Chuck brushing at his eyes, embarrassed by what had obviously been an emotional welcome.

Since then, he had settled in fairly comfortably – and as a result, Blair had taken up residence alongside him. Nonetheless, there was a touch of strangeness about sitting at the breakfast table with Rufus Humphrey in a state of dishabille.

"I'm probably going to need a place," Chuck said hesitantly, after Rufus went to band practice and Lily departed for a body corporate meeting. Eric, Blair and Chuck were enjoying a leisurely breakfast alone when Chuck had begun scanning the _New York Times_ real estate section.

Eric looked up from his scrambled eggs with a horrified look on his face. "You're not staying here?"

Blair and Chuck exchanged a surprised look at the intensity of his response. Eric had been more thrilled than anyone at the news that Chuck would be moving in with them for a while. During the long nights Chuck and Blair spent in bed together, relishing the feeling of salty skin pressed against salty skin and the possibility of saying anything that occurred to them, Chuck had commented on the slight changes in Eric's bearing. He was alone too often, in Chuck's opinion. And he was too sweet a kid to complain about it. He had also developed a strange tendency to secrecy that he'd never manifested before. Eric had always been almost disconcertingly honest, and yet whenever Chuck entered the younger boy's bedroom, he would jump and hide something from view.

"He's at that age, Chuck," Blair said reasonably, pressing their palms together and watching the way they interlocked with fascination. "He's probably writing some I-hate-the-world-and-everyone-in-it-because-no one-understands-me diary entry."

"A diary?" Chuck said, feigning disinterest.

"Don't even think about it. Girls and queers never forget an invasion of privacy."

"_I _never forget an invasion of privacy," Chuck responded, curling his fingers over Blair's much smaller hand. "Which one does that make me?"

"I'd have to go with girl," Blair said, hiding a smile.

"Come here and say that. No really. Come here."

Blair hated to admit it, but the more time she spent with Eric, the more convinced she was that Chuck's instincts had been correct: that the clouded space behind his innocent blue eyes that never saw the bad side in anyone was turning against itself. There had always been a hint of darkness about Eric – the scar on his wrist was just a rather visible reminder.

"Well," Chuck said hesitantly, trying to mask his concern for the boy. "I just thought I should buy somewhere to stay in the city. I can't live in my bedroom here forever."

"Sure you can," Eric protested. "No one minds having you around."

"He knows that," Blair said gently, squeezing Eric's hand.

"Yeah of course," Chuck said, reassuringly. "But I'm going to need a Bass Cave of my own at some point. You know: somewhere we can all go to play with high-tech gadgets and perform kinky acts with winged rodents."

"You're so sexy when you're non-sequitur," Blair grinned, sliding onto his lap and wrapping her arm around his neck as Eric mimed throwing up into a bucket.

"And it would also be nice having a well sound-proofed place where I can have my way with you."

"Chuck," Blair protested feebly. "Elder Humphrey could walk into the room at any moment. He's going to start thinking I'm a slut."

"I was talking to Eric," Chuck responded innocently, before turning to look at his younger brother. "But, if you want another man in the house, I can always stay around. My witty one-liners really improve the quality of the conversation around here."

Eric suddenly seemed to realize that he had over-reacted. Taking a stabilising breath, he offered Chuck a slim, insincere facsimile of a smile. "Please," he drawled in an impressive Chuck Bass impression. "Last time I checked, _men_ didn't need to verbally assault their brothers for insisting that they limit their showers to under forty-five minutes."

"You think this - " Chuck gestured to his face, "- just happens? Being the prettiest one in the house takes a lot of work." Chuck glanced at Blair, wrapping his arms possessively. "Well…second prettiest."

"You'd think his blatant sucking up would become less effective over time," Blair mused. "And yet, here I am…still falling for it."

Despite Eric's attempted coolness, Chuck had put the brakes on the house searching, although he had begun a covert process of looking at apartments around New York.

"It's all complete crap," he complained to Nate over the phone. "I can't imagine Blair setting foot in a single one of them."

"So you've asked her to move in?" Nate asked curiously.

"No," he said defensively. "I mean, she's got Yale. I just figured that she could…you know…keep her clothes and jewellery in my apartment…have dinner and sleep there…and use her own key to come and go."

"I believe that is what is popularly known as moving in together," Nate teased. "Just do me a favour, buddy. Set up a video satellite link to me when you tell Eleanor that Blair's moving in with you. I just want to see her face. And how she decides to kill you."

"She's not a well woman," Chuck protested. "She probably won't kill me."

"Just keep telling yourself that."

Had Nate actually been in New York, witnessing Eleanor's cancer treatment, he may have found less humour in Chuck's observation. Already rather prickly and difficult, chemotherapy seemed to highlight the very worst aspects of her personality. Chuck knew, even as Blair dutifully set about the task of caring for her mother, that Blair was furious at Eleanor for keeping the news of her cancer from Blair. More than once over the last week, Chuck had been convinced that Blair was only just holding back some angry comment or other from bursting out of her. But, each time, Blair exercised a self-restraint Chuck had never seen before.

Around her mother, Blair was almost heart-breakingly pliant and obedient. Chuck didn't quite know what to make of it; he had been certain that Eleanor and Blair had moved passed their old holding pattern of subtext and distance. A part of him was convinced that Blair was merely biding her time: that at some point a critical mass would be reached and all those things that Blair was holding at bay would come spilling from her.

Despite his suspicions, when the moment came, Chuck was utterly blindsided.

It was a working week after Blair had found out the truth about Eleanor's condition, and it was also the first day of Eleanor's chemotherapy treatment. When they arrived, Chuck could sense the nervous energy in the Waldof apartment. The trepidation was thick in the air.

"Blair," Eleanor said icily, sipping a glass of water. "So nice of you to join us."

Cyrus shot her a warning look, and Chuck knew from the exasperated expression on his face that Eleanor had been even more…_Eleanor_…than usual. It was nerves, Chuck knew. But there was a strangely hard expression on Blair's face that threw him. He was so used to understanding the cause and effect of every emotion on her frame. But, for once, he had no idea

"And I see you brought Charles. Do you really think that's appropriate? I hardly want an audience."

"He's here to support me," Blair said stiffly. "And from the sounds of things, you had no problem with having him at your beck and call over the last few weeks."

"We're all tired and nervous," Cyrus chimed in. "It's a big day. A scary day. Blair, why don't you sit down and have something to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

Chuck glanced at her. It was unlike Blair to be so wilfully obstinate. For her part, Eleanor's face softened. "Sit down Blair. I'm sorry for what I said. Charles is always welcome."

There was a beat of tense silence.

"It's a scary day," Eleanor said, softer still. "Like Cyrus said."

When Chuck pulled out Blair's seat for her, he was struck by a wave of déjà vu, recalling how often he had watched Bart pull chairs out for those young and glamorous women he dated over the years. Those slim-hipped women, each ravishing and ravenous for a lifestyle within arm's reach, would smile widely at him certain that if they could elicit Chuck's approval, they would win Bart's affection.

They might have well not bothered. Never once had Bart inquired about Chuck's preference.

The absence of Bart in his life still caused a twisting feeling in his chest, but not because of some misguided, romanticised notion of their time together. Rather, there were moments when Chuck was so full of those unspoken resentments and accusations that he was sure they would spill from him at any moment.

It was only now, as his reverie crystallized back into the present moment, that Chuck noted the tightness of Blair's shoulders, and the way Eleanor gritted her teeth. Both of them came to the table putting forward an image of what they thought the other wanted of them. They pushed themselves and tried to be the way they thought they ought to be. And when still they did not strike the right note, they blamed each other. Chuck suspected that they were only ever themselves when they were fighting.

"It occurs to me that I haven't had a chance to tell you how nice it is having you back in the apartment, Blair," Cyrus said merrily, interrupting his in-depth account of the day's timetable. "It is a shame you have been so busy at school that you haven't been able to visit."

Almost in spite of herself, Blair looked up at Chuck, the memory of that fight they'd had, when he had brandished her "D" in front of her face wavering between them. It was no more than an instant, but Chuck felt suddenly guilty. Giddy on the feeling of having her near him again, he had entirely neglected to speak to her about Yale. Sometimes he worried about their ability to avoid talking about things like this. They were so captivated by the image of themselves as in perfect step, that they both felt an inordinate amount of guilt at being responsible for any misstep, any minor or major imperfection.

It was funny how the topic of Yale had been a cause of friction on more than one occasion. Chuck offered her a slight smile.

"Well, I'm glad you feel that way Cyrus," Blair said, squaring her shoulders and still holding Chuck's eye. "Because I've actually decided not to go back to Yale."

"Excuse me?"; "Wait – what?" Their responses were so perfectly timed that neither Chuck nor Eleanor could tell who spoke first, or even which of them said each particular phrase.

"What do you mean, you've decided not to go back to Yale?" Chuck asked frantically.

"Yale isn't working," Blair said, glancing at her mother. "It's not the right place for me."

"You cannot imagine that you can just 'decide' something like that," Eleanor scoffed, pressing a finger to her temple.

Blair shot her mother a look, her posture misleadingly casual. Chuck took a moment to study her face, and realized two things in quick procession. The first was that she had come to this decision a long time ago; she was not improvising, and any element of spontaneity in her delivery was no more than a front. The second was that even Blair wasn't sure why she had chosen this precise moment, just before Eleanor's first chemotherapy appointment to deliver the news. But Chuck felt fairly certain that a part of her had intended to deliver the news as cruelly as possible. She may never articulate those hidden resentments she harboured over her mother's secrecy – and probably a multitude of half-forgotten sins over the course of her life – but she would use this information to strike at Eleanor. And although Chuck knew that the scene would be ugly, a part of him could respect her timing.

"It's my decision to make, mother," Blair said stubbornly, biting her toast. "And I think under the circumstances, you can't be surprised."

Eleanor gestured in the air before her, drawing a series of rapid circles as Chuck watched in mute fascination. "What are these 'circumstances'?"

Blair put down her toast. "With your illness. I can stay here and help you while I figure out what I want to do."

"You will not use my health as an excuse to drop out of college," Eleanor said quietly. "I will not allow it."

"This isn't a big deal," Blair said, glancing at Chuck for support. "I mean, people do this. You just don't understand because you never went to college." [1]

"What I don't understand is how you can _sit_ there and expect me to buy into this whole 'staying here for mother dearest' routine," Eleanor spat, getting to her feet and walking to the large bay window that overlooked the city.

Chuck glanced at Cyrus, who seemed entirely unaware that he had a large crumb stuck to his chin.

"It's not a routine."

"Oh come on," Eleanor scoffed, turning around to face her daughter, who still sat proudly in her chair. "There is only one person you would give up your dream for. And his name is Chuck Bass."

Chuck glanced at Cyrus again, grimacing slightly. "Chuck Bass…now why does that name sound familiar?"

"Eleanor, dear," Cyrus said gently. "Perhaps you should sit down. Too much excitement."

"This is not just about Chuck, mother. Yale just isn't my dream anymore."

For a moment Eleanor's face softened and she held out a placating hand. "The transition into college is meant to be difficult. But you have to act like a grown-up and accept that sometimes the dream and the reality is different."

"No," Blair said, finally getting to her feet. "Sometimes you have to accept the fact that dreams can change. I think it's possible for me to be happy, mother. And I don't want to put it off anymore."

Any sign of conciliation fell away from Eleanor's face. "You do not throw away your dream for the sake of a boy."

"Why _not_?" Blair spat, allowing the napkin to fall from her lap as she stood to her feet. "Why shouldn't I want to be with Chuck if that's what makes me happy?"

"Because your future is too important," Eleanor said, pleadingly.

"I'm so _sick_ of constantly worrying about the future," Blair said, her eyes taking on the tell-tale brightness of unshed tears. A part of Chuck wanted to stand between Blair and her mother, but a part of him didn't want to interrupt her. Blair was always so hesitant to scare him with talk of their future, that hearing her speak so defiantly to her mother, defending her desire to be with him was impossibly romantic. "We can't predict anything that's going to happen in the future, mother. You're walking proof of that. And maybe if you had the capacity to love anyone other than yourself you'd understand that for the last few months at Yale I haven't been able to _breathe_. And maybe that sounds childish to you, but maybe I have something special. Maybe what Chuck and I have is worth leaving Yale for." Blair took a deep breath. "But, I wasn't lying when I said Chuck wasn't the only reason. I always thought that Yale would make me happy. But now I understand that I'm the only one who can do that."

"And tell me, Blair," Eleanor asked dryly. "What is going to make you _happy_."

"I don't know," Blair said, her chin raised. "But I know what's making me unhappy."

"You will regret this for the rest of your life," Eleanor said, pressing her hand to her chest. "Please, listen to me when I say that you will regret this forever."

"No, mother. I won't. Maybe you will – I know how much you love the image of me sitting in that ivory tower at Yale. But I know – I just _know_ – that it's the wrong place for me."

"I can't accept this," Eleanor said, and for a moment, Chuck felt sorry for her. She looked very old, sitting by the window, wearing her comfortable chemotherapy clothes. "And I can't believe you'd spring this on me now."

Chuck found himself getting to his feet and walking around the table to put a hand on Blair's hip.

"I suppose _you're_ thrilled to hear this," Eleanor spat, glaring at him.

Chuck shot her a cold look. "Am I thrilled to hear that Blair is leaving Yale? No. I most certainly am not." He squeezed her hip slightly, aware that hearing his honest opinion on the topic would sound like a betrayal in the face of her mother's harsh words. "But, Eleanor, I think the more important thing is that I'm not surprised to hear it. Because unlike you, I could see that something was off."

"Well gee," Eleanor said bitterly. "What on earth could I have had on my mind that distracted me from my daughter's latest adolescent dramatics? Oh, wait. Of course. Cancer!"

It was the first time that he had heard her say it out loud. As one, they glanced at the clock that stood on the mantelpiece.

"Oh shit," Eleanor cursed. "We're going to be late. This conversation is not over, young lady."

It would have been the perfect moment for Blair and Chuck to stalk out of the apartment in some grandiose gesture of defiance. But, without comment, they obediently gathered their coats and followed Eleanor out of the door, even managing to exchange small talk with the doorman.

Chuck realized, as Eleanor and Cyrus squabbled over seating arrangement in his limo, that this was what family was: this stubborn acceptance that no matter what the disagreement was, there were some things that were more important.

He wrapped an arm around Blair's shoulder, kissing her hairline. "Eleanor's right," he whispered. "This conversation isn't over."

"I know," Blair said, wrapping a hand around his scarf before sliding into the car.

Chuck almost failed to notice that her other hand was holding Eleanor's.

*

There was something about the city in October.

Dan had always felt it: the turn of the leaves and the gradual surrender of the fleeting summer months do the darker, cooler times. It had always been a time when Dan felt energised. Vanessa used to joke that she could measure the months according to his clothes. October was the time for cardigans. Vaguely effeminate cardigans, according to Chuck.

It was strangely satisfying, traversing the NYU campus and heading towards Vanessa's dorm room. There was a sense of perfect alignment; film school had always been her plan. And just like Dan at Yale, Vanessa seemed to have found a way to make that dream a reality.

It was a strange thing, this friendship turned romance turned back into friendship. The friendlier parts of him felt nothing but warm feelings about her success in achieving her dreams. That part remembered pumpkin muffins and espresso coffees accompanying future plans. That part remembered the first movie she ever made – a horror movie based on the old watch he had inherited from his grandfather, written and directed by Vanessa with Dan as the wise-cracking anti-hero.

But the ex-boyfriend in him resented every second of her success. Just as he had resented her for packing up her meagre possessions and setting off on a road trip. She had made such reasonable points when she left. She had pointed out that it was _his_ plan of attending Yale that was truly going to separate them. Her two months of travelling was not nearly the same as his four years of study.

"And _besides_," she had said – oh so reasonably. "Didn't we agree that we wouldn't stand in each other's way?"

_Yes,_ he thought sullenly. "So I'm standing in your way?" he had spat, angrily.

But for some reason, even though he hadn't been to visit her before, the journey to her dorm room was surprisingly familiar. They had always planned for him to be a regular fixture in her dorm – back in the days when neither had wanted to say out loud that they were factoring each other into their plans.

When he knocked on the door, though, any semblance of certainty escaped him.

"Dan," she said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

She held the door close to her side, as if there were a man inside that she wanted to hide from view. Really, there was nothing but the garish Hello Kitty rug and assorted movie memorabilia. But, perhaps she was remembering the spectral presence of the various men she'd had here since they parted ways. That thought alone was enough to sour Dan's mood.

But, the friend in him smiled at her, in her electric blue dress and wearing only one earring. Holding up a paper bag as if it were a peace offering, he glanced down in a way he knew she found adorable (_just friends,_ he chanted over and over in his head, _just friends, just friends_).

"I come bearing the coffee and bagels of my people."

Cocking her head to the side, she gave him her patented-Vanessa crooked grin. "I hear they are a great delicacy."

"You've heard correctly."

Glancing over her shoulder, as if wanting to make sure that the coast was clear, she opened the door wide to welcome him. "I think I have a Scorcese film that goes perfectly with bagels."

"Lead the way," he said.

With that, Dan Humphrey entered Vanessa Abram's dorm room – and re-entered her life.

*

When they entered Chuck's bedroom in the Van Der Woodsen's apartment, Blair went immediately to the stereo, feeling a strange craving for music and escape. She had needed a break from Eleanor and that small room with the comfortable chairs that tried to pose as "homely". All they did was add insult to injury. They never made a single patient forget that they were there for chemotherapy.

They had offered to stay with Cyrus and Eleanor that night, but Eleanor had demurred, wanting only the privacy of her own bathroom and a moment alone with her husband. Blair trusted her mother with Cyrus. That was something, at least.

"What are we listening to?" Chuck asked, kissing her neck when he emerged from the bathroom.

"Bon Iver," Blair said, leaning into his hands as they wrapped around her waist. "Do you know he wrote this album when he was alone in his father's cabin?"

"I did know," Chuck responded softly, before setting himself the task of undressing her.

"You knew that he was alone? Recovering from some sickness?" Blair asked, feeling strangely unashamed by her body as he exposed it to the night's air, inch by inch.

"I did," Chuck confirmed as he rolled her stockings down her leg.

"You can hear the snow in the lyrics, don't you think? You can hear solitude and the cold. It's beautiful."

Chuck led her into the bathroom, where he had lit candles and filled the bath with bubbles that smelt like flowers.

"I don't think he even intended to make music," Blair mused as she stepped into the warm liquid and watched him remove his robe. He followed her, as he always had – as she had him, many times before. "I think he just craved time and space. And the music came from within him."

They settled into the bathtub, with her leaning against his chest. She craned her neck to look at him, even though the vantage point was awkward, and she could only see his jaw line. For a long time, he just traced a wet line down the side of her arm.

"Do you think that sometimes people just crave the right circumstances to make beautiful art? Maybe we just long for the right situation for us to become poets?"

"I do," Chuck confirmed after a brief pause.

"So do I," Blair said, settling back into his chest, staring at the wall before her.

For a long time, they sat in silence, until Chuck spoke, bashfully, as if he were much younger and less certain than his 18 years.

"There's poetry in you, I think," he said. "Some people – you just know that they have something spectacular inside of them. And you're one of them."

"I don't know if that's true," Blair said doubtfully.

"It is. You've always been special. I mean – you've always been on everyone's "most likely to succeed" lists."

Blair fished for his hand under the water, bringing it to her lips. She didn't kiss them, though, but just let her breath play against them. Heat giving way to cold. An impact of her presence upon his very skin.

"And out of all those 'most likely to…' lists, how many actually succeed?"

"I don't know."

"Neither do I," Blair mused, as Chuck felt her words on his fingertips. "And I'm so terrified of just being nothing in particular – of not living up to what I was meant to do."

"A good reason to stay at Yale," Chuck reasoned.

"So we're going to talk about that, are we?"

"Well there's nothing good on TV," Chuck dead-panned. When Blair didn't answer, Chuck knew that he would have to give her more, would have to expose himself just a little more than he was truly comfortable with. "I hate to think that you'd be leaving Yale because of me."

At that, Blair manoeuvred herself away form him, wanting to see his face. When her back pressed the opposite side of the bathtub, she felt the sting of cool porcelain across her back, but she could see the way his eyes cut away from her face, and he refused to meet her eyes.

"Do you?"

"I should," Chuck said, still avoiding her eyes, even as their legs entwined. "Yale is your dream."

"It was."

"Yale is a good bet," Chuck said, in the mood to be contrary, his hand fiddling with the strange puff that Lily had insisted on hanging on the hook of his en suite bath. Perhaps it was a woman's thing – perhaps Blair would use it. If he was honest with himself, he loved the image of her in his bathroom, preparing her face for the world. If he were even more honest with himself, he would admit that he had never expected to feel so strongly about anyone. He had resigned himself to being alone, really. "Surely the pragmatist inside of you knows that Yale looks good on a resume."

It was Blair's turn to avoid his eyes. "A 'D' is still a 'D', even at a good school – more so, really."

Chuck scoffed. "That was an anomaly. It was my fault. If you knew that things were good with us, you wouldn't be distracted."

"That's not it, though," Blair murmured. "It wasn't just being distracted."

"What was it then," Chuck asked, creating small ripples with his right hand, his legs pressing against hers as they faced each other in the bath. "Explain it to me."

"When I made Yale my plan – even then, it wasn't my passion. Not really. It's like with Nate," she said, glancing at him as his face twitched at the mention of her ex-boyfriend. "I chose Yale because it seemed like the safe choice. I chose Yale – and I chose it with all my heart, because I never did anything half-heartedly – I chose it because I liked the way it made my father smile at me. I liked how proud my mother was and how my teachers nodded approvingly. I chose it because it was safe."

"Safe isn't bad," Chuck commented.

Blair could never be sure whether it was the heat of the bath or the stress of the day – or merely the smell of flowers that made her daring that day. For whatever reason, she didn't cast a thought towards what he would think of her for her candour. All she wanted to do was make him understand.

"But safe went out the window when I fell in love with you," Blair said. "I'm a different person. I'm someone who has known passion – that little something more that most people think they can do without. But, I can't Chuck." She ran a hand through her hair, piled on top of her head. "I know – call it intuition or blind faith – I just _know_ that there is something out there that I can be passionate about. Who cares if the passion came from you – whatever the cause - it's real. And I can't ignore it."

"You can have passions at Yale," Chuck said, grasping her hands in his own.

"No I can't. Maybe it's stupid, but I can't just float around Yale without any direction. Maybe I could salvage this semester. But I just don't want to. I don't want to do it."

"I could help you," Chuck said, feeling his own will giving way.

"You can't help me with this," Blair said gently. "I mean – I understand now what the last month has been like for you. But the fact of the matter is that Yale was bad. It was just _bad_. And maybe you can't understand it – maybe I can't explain it to you. But I just have to do this. Even if you don't support me. Even if you can't stand by me through this."

Chuck gaped at her. "I'd stand by you through anything. I mean – surely you know that?"

For a moment, the impact of the last month played across her face. Chuck couldn't ignore the desperation that came upon her as she considered every bitter disappointment that had befallen her since technically achieving her dream. And he knew, possibly more than Blair was willing to admit, that it was his fault. That he had pushed her away, even if it had been for her own good. No matter how perfect their time together was now, no matter how honest his motives had been, he would never be able to reach out and retrieve those weeks and months that he had spent dodging her calls, leaving her desperate and alone in New Haven.

"I know," she lied.

Chuck pressed his palms flat on either side of the tub, holding her eyes. "I know that it's my fault that we got to this place," Chuck said in a soft and private voice. "But I think I've figured it out now…I mean Nate helped me figure it out, I suppose. And Vanessa. Really everyone except the one person I should have been talking about it with."

Blair's lip twitched slightly, as if she were holding back something she wanted to say. "And how…how is it supposed to be?"

"We're supposed to talk about things. I mean I know that sounds obvious, but neither of us are good at just…talking about things. We're good at fights, we're good at make-up sex. But I don't want to do that anymore - " Chuck smiled slightly, leaning forward to kiss her on the lips with the force of a butterfly's wing. "Well, I want to do the make-up sex thing."

Blair laughed slightly, splashing him slightly, but then she frowned into his face, her eyes misting over. "I don't know Chuck. We've said it all before. No secrets. But it just never seems to work."

"But that's just it," he said, his eyes pleading with her to understand his meaning. "Things only become secrets because we don't talk about it. I don't want to make decisions for you. I just…I want us to talk about it, together. I want us to talk about what it will mean and how we're going to figure it out – together. I just want to talk. Because…I like the sound of your voice." [2]

Blair smiled tentatively at him, leaning forward so that their faces were almost touching. "I want to find something I'm passionate about…I mean, other than you."

Mirroring her exactly, Chuck wrapped his arms around her wet waist. "And you can't do that at Yale?"

For a moment, Blair looked down at her feet, considering his words. Then, in a nervous, uncertain voice, she looked back up at him. "I can't do that without you."

"I'm here – no matter what," Chuck assured her. "No matter what you decide. I'm here."

Blair kissed him.

They had made love a hundred different ways. Even for a couple that prided themselves on their sex lives, they'd had their shares of ups and downs. There had been an unfortunate period when Chuck had been convinced that she would enjoy having an ostrich feather rubbed against her skin. There had been a week when Blair had read in _Cosmopolitan _that men loved being licked all over their body, which only made Chuck feel awkward about rubbing the line of spit from his forearms. But overall, both of them were fairly satisfied that they had found their perfect match, sexually.

That night, though, they made love as if they were making music. Blair was reminded of her odd little roommate, who had played the cello as if she had been born to be a perfect fit to something that had been forged by man's hands. The night that she told him she was leaving Yale and he assured her that nothing would take him from her side, the tone and timbre of the sex changed, until it seemed as if they could change the face of the earth by the steady movement of their bodies. There was no thought of length of time or self-conscious consideration of performance.

There were only two people in the world that night, and the square feet of a bed in a family home.

*

[1] _Gilmore Girls _quote. I drew fairly heavily on the "Rory leaves Yale" storyline.

[2] An adorable line from _The West Wing._


	7. Chapter 7: Like Sticks in the Water

_Lightness and Weight_

Sequel to _The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair_

A/N: After watching "The Unblairable Lightness" (thanks to everyone who PM-ed about the similarity between the title of ep 3x17 and this series – I choose to imagine that it was an homage to this fic!), I decided that we all needed a new chapter of _Lightness and Weight_. So here it is. I'm a bit rusty, but would love your feedback. I laid down the groundwork for a Thanksgiving chapter next…so I'm leaving my options open!

Chapter Seven: Like Sticks in the Water

"_She had always wanted words, she loved them, grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape. Whereas I thought words bent emotions like sticks in water." _

Michael Ondaatje, _The English Patient_

Blair slid her electronic key into the slot next to the buttons on the elevator, pressing the button and enjoying the soaring sensation as she rose to the level of the Waldorf-Rose penthouse.

The sensation always came with images of smock-dresses and the feeling of unbounded enthusiasm for home. The doors would slide open, Blair would bound from her mother's side and into her father's arms. It must have hurt Eleanor each time: that rush of abandonment as Blair ran, in those uncomfortable sandals and dresses that were too elegant for the playground, to Harold. It was so much easier, now that Blair was older and a woman herself, to imagine the sting of rejection that would constrict her mother's heart in those moments. Eleanor would feel foolish, reminding herself that Blair was a child, and that the mother had to be the bad guy, had to be the disciplinary.

_She's only a child_, Eleanor would repeat to herself, as mantra, as epitaph.

But with each year that past and each tiny step in her father's direction or unwilling moment passed at Eleanor's side, surely her mother's psychology had silently and undeniably turned against Blair. When adolescence came and Blair's preference for her father became only more pronounced, everything must have been confirmed.

"Mother," Blair called, holding her coat in her hand and looking around for Dorota and Cyrus.

Receiving no answer, she wandered into the house, noting that the blinds were closed and the rooms dark and cool. She was surprised, and a little bit touched, to see that Eleanor had developed and framed a photograph of Chuck and Blair, dressed up for one of Lily's Met fundraisers. It had only been a few weeks ago. Eleanor had insisted that they ready themselves here; she had been unwilling to attend herself, knowing that the nausea that came with chemotherapy promised to disrupt the musical performance and hating the idea of causing a spectacle is she was unable to reach the bathroom in time.

"I'll say this for Charles," came a soft and dry voice. "He knows how to wear a tuxedo."

Blair jumped slightly, turning around to find her mother lying on the sofa, wearing a winter dressing gown and a bed jacket, her newly shorn hair hidden under a headscarf. Blair had to resist the urge to pull at her own long hair. There had been a brief, amorphous moment when Blair had considered hacking her own hair off, in solidarity.

She had stood in front of Chuck's mirror, holding large silver scissors – the kind more suited to cutting the ribbon of a race or the tape that was always dissected by the Mayor at special events than cutting off brown curls.

Eleanor had cut her own hair off, not wanting to sit in a salon and have the young hairdressers titter in sympathy. She had mentioned her intention to no one. One moment she had denied the entire thing: had not been willing for anyone to mention "the c-word." The next, she had cut off her hair into the sink of her bathroom and had been a cancer patient.

Blair tried to mirror her mother's decisiveness. But, a part of her knew, even as she stood at the mirror, that if she had really intended to follow through with her plan, she would have gone to a hairdresser. A part of her knew from the moment she entered the bathroom that nothing would come of this. A part of her had known that she would never sacrifice the long hair that Chuck loved for her mother. The idea of watching her curls fall onto the tiles of Chuck's bathroom was too gruesome. She couldn't stomach it.

When she left the bathroom, Chuck raised an eyebrow at her scissors. "Did the hemlocks in the bathroom need trimming?"

Blair shrugged, suddenly embarrassed by the entire idea. Holding the scissors as if they were some alien technology she didn't quite understand, she turned her back to him, leaning her hands flat on his desk. "They were in there already," she lied.

Before she knew it, his arms were around her waist. "Your being here is enough for your mother. You don't need to do anything drastic."

"Good," Blair said moodily, squirming out of his grip. "Because it turns out that I'm incapable of anything else."

"I love your hair," Chuck said flatly, not trying to make contact again. "I'm glad you couldn't go through with it."

"What if I had no choice?" Blair asked, regarding him in her peripheral vision. "I'm sure Cyrus loved my mother's hair too."

Chuck leant against his desk, pressing his palms to his eyes and not trying to reach out to touch her. He seemed to sense that she was not in the mood for physical contact. Sometimes she was sick to death of words, but at a time like this, those petty, verbal assurances were all she craved.

Chuck settled her with one of those dark glances of his. "But Cyrus loves your mother more than her hair. It's something he had to accept to keep her with him. He'd accept worse."

Chuck didn't need to add: _and so would I._ Because words occasionally fall short. And so, she had propelled herself into his arms and kissed him with the force of a butterfly to honour the ones in his stomach.

Nonetheless, each time she entered Eleanor's apartment, Blair was struck with the recollection of the limits of her devotion to her mother. The sight of the hard angles of Eleanor's face under a severe haircut served only to accentuate Blair's guilt.

"The problem is," Blair mused as her mother languished on the couch, "that Chuck is well aware that he knows how to wear a tux. He is completely insufferable at these events. He looks at every reflective surface."

Eleanor seemed to lose interest in the conversation, shifting slightly, not bothering to adjust the pillow against her back. For a moment, she looked Blair up and down, noticing for the first time that she was dressed in a canary yellow cocktail dress, with panels of black accentuating the sides. With a sour expression on her face, she sniffed at the sight of Blair's sparkling black earrings.

"I see there is _another_ party tonight," she said.

Blair chose not to comment. Perching on the edge of the sofa where Eleanor lay, she regarded her mother. It was a bad day.

There were moments recently when Eleanor was almost normal – actually, better than normal. When she didn't feel ill and her disease had given her new lease on life and a wicked sense of humour that Blair had sensed and Chuck had never expected. They would have decadent lunches, sprawled in the sitting room, all in their pyjamas. Blair grinned at the memory of Chuck sitting nervously he first time, Chuck had insisted on remaining in his suit and had spent the entire day, perched awkwardly on a dining room chair as the rest of them laughed and sprawled next door. By the second time, Chuck seemed to have embraced the Bacchalian spirit of these meetings, dressed in paisley silk pyjamas and singing raucously with Cyrus. Blair had been forced to half carry him up the stairs to bed.

"I should throw you over my shoulder," Chuck slurred in her air, smelling her hair as she helped him to her bed. "So I can have my…you know…right of way with you."

Within three seconds of landing on her bed, he had been unconscious.

Today, though, any indication of that joviality was absent from the room. The tone of the place was solemn, the way it had so often been when Eleanor's head was wrapped up in work and Blair found herself creeping through the mausoleum, paranoid that she would interrupt. Eleanor's curved spine made her seem smaller than usual. Blair found herself unwilling to touch her, as if worried she might bruise. After a few moments of quiet stretched into silence, Eleanor lifted her ravaged head and took in Blair's profile.

It had not been the first time that Eleanor had made a comment to this effect. At first, the sight of Blair and Chuck attending the exclusive events that Chuck's immense wealth saw them invited to. Ever since Blair had confided in Chuck about her desire to cast off her old dream of Yale, and he had agreed to support her no matter what, it seemed as if their nights had been filled with a sort of voluptuous idleness that Blair had been enjoying to no end. He had made it his singular mission to cheer her up – and she had to admit, he had been doing a spectacular job. Nonetheless, it seemed that Eleanor had passed from pleased to disapproving at the sight of their incessant socializing.

Just last week, Blair had swanned into her mother's penthouse to find Eleanor scowling over the society pages of the newspaper.

"I'm glad to see you're making use of this down time," Eleanor said with a wrinkled nose, her complexion grey and increasingly sickly.

"I'm having fun," Blair responded defensively. "That's not a crime."

In spite of herself, she wandered over to her mother as Eleanor ate dry toast, peering over her shoulder at the picture of her standing by Chuck's side – her dress glowing red next to his black jacket and scarlet. His arm was outstretched, as if clearing the way for her, and he was smirking in a way that reminded her fondly of his days as an underage playboy. For her part, she was offering him a sly smile, as if even then she had been able to anticipate the caption: **Bright Young Things.**

"It's a nice picture," Blair commented casually.

Usually, Eleanor dropped it at that – perhaps throwing in one more barb before grudgingly asking Dorota to cut out the picture. Today however, as she lay on the couch in a darkened room, it seemed that Eleanor was not going to indulge her. Blair found herself standing up, straightening out her yellow dress and wandering idly over the bookcase.

"You shouldn't be wasting your time with all these parties," Eleanor said, finally, unwilling to give the issue a rest. "You should be focusing on picking a major for when you return to Yale."

Blair only just refrained from rolling her eyes, deciding that broaching the topic of Yale was a sure-fire way of getting into an enormous fight with her mother – and worse, one that wouldn't be cut short by Chuck's arrival in his limo to pick her up.

Searching her mind for a neutral topic of conversation that wouldn't raise her mother's ire, Blair ran her fingers over the wooden surface of the bookcase. "I visited Vanessa today," she said idly.

"Who is Vanessa?" Eleanor asked without opening her eyes and without much interest.

"A friend of mine. Goes to NYU." Blair bit her lip slightly, regarding her mother through the dusty light that managed to sneak through the gaps in the curtains. "We made a documentary together. About a women's shelter."

"I don't remember that," Eleanor said distractedly, angling herself away from Blair, as if to turn her body away from the light as well.

"It was a while ago. It turns out some of her professors really like it. They want to extend it. Vanessa asked me to help."

There was a long pause, during which Blair found herself humming nervously, thrumming her fingers on the surface of the marble. She had been spending quite a bit of time with Vanessa recently, even deigning to visit her in her dorm room with an over-the-top bunch of flowers that had seen several co-eds giving her incredulous looks on the journey down the hallway. Vanessa had even managed to convince Blair and Chuck to attend an amateur film festival with her a few nights ago. Although, given the fact that Chuck talked loudly and rudely about every single entrant, Blair somehow doubted that Vanessa would attempt to make the festivities a weekly event.

Finally, Eleanor broke the long silence. "This - " Eleanor gestured vaguely, " – _film _thing. It's something you want to try?"

Blair shrugged, her heart beating in her ears. "I think so."

"Then I'm with you," Eleanor said, with a resolute nod. Blair smiled, walking over to the couch - no longer threatened by the lack of speaking. But, it seemed that there had been much that Eleanor had been unwilling to say out loud. "I'm actually relieved that you're showing an interest in something. Outside of Charles, that is."

Blair shifted uncomfortably. "I have other interests."

"Maybe you do," Eleanor conceded before coughing slightly into the back of her hand. "But Charles certainly doesn't."

"That's not true," Blair said defensively, irritated at her mother's insulting Chuck after the lengths to which he had gone to keep Eleanor comfortable and well cared for.

"Please," Eleanor snorted. "Name one thing that Charles has done under his own stead in the last month."

"Well, mother, he's been slightly distracted by a few things."

"I'm not attacking him. I'm just pointing out that he has become so wrapped up in our…what is the word…_drama_ that he seems to have completely forgotten about himself."

Every fibre of Blair's body pulled away from the unavoidable truth of her mother's words. Searching her mind for a way to refute Eleanor's point, her eyes fell on the bookcase. "He's still reading a lot," she said, not realizing how lame it would sound.

Eleanor seemed to be tiring of their fight, or perhaps there was only so much tension that her frail body could withstand at the moment. "That's good. Just make sure he remembers to have a life of his own outside of you."

"You want him to have a life outside of me?" Blair gasped in mock shock. "And you call yourself my mother!"

Eleanor smiled, a wave of colour returning to her cheeks. "A small, inconsequential life. That can often be relegated to second place at your every whim."

"Well, in that case," Blair smiled, fanning herself. "Wasn't there some Parisian man you wanted me to abuse?"

Eleanor snapped to attention, coming to life before Blair's eyes. "_Yes._ I'd almost forgotten. I need you to call Jacques Bruillard and tell him that if he thinks I'm paying that price for silk he can forcibly insert it into his - "

Blair smiled as her mother jumped up from the couch and ran to get the telephone.

_See,_ Blair thought to herself. _I _am_ doing something here._

Glancing at the bookcase once more, she tried to swallow the feeling that suddenly came upon her. Unbidden, a small voice in her head asked, _but what is Chuck still doing here?_

* * *

It had been many weeks since Dan had come upon Blair disappearing into small spaces in a forgotten dorm-room on Yale's grounds. Having promised Chuck in the heat of a watchful moment to keep an eye on Blair in these grounds, he had found himself thoroughly lacking. If he was going to give himself any credit at all, it would be for calling Serena. So idealistic and simple in her outlook on life – _do what makes you happy, live each day like it is your last, screw the consequences – _she had been the gentle breath that had pushed Blair into the direction of Chuck.

And of course, Dan had followed. Sometimes, in his darkest moments, he feared that there would never come a time when Dan lived for his own life. Jenny and Rufus would have laughed at that. During their ragtag days in the loft, before ascending to the lofty heights of the Van Der Woodsen-Bass compound, Rufus, Jenny and Dan had existed happily in a house with few walls that couldn't be removed. There, Rufus and Jenny had often accused Dan of having his head in the clouds, of being in his own mind – almost narcissistic in his constant preoccupation with his own reflections on the world around him.

Then, his subject matter had always been himself.

But, for some reason, over the last few months, every story he'd written had been about _them._ Of course, it had taken Vanessa to point it out to him. After following Blair back to New York – back to the past – Dan had found himself picking up right where he left off with Vanessa, somewhere between the world of friendship and the world of romance. It wasn't surprising that she'd call him on it; she was always the one who knew him best.

He had brought some of the stories he'd written with him, as they guilty indulged in watching _True Blood_ in her dorm, assuring themselves that they were interested merely in the appropriation of the Gothic genre to the Deep South. Dan had poked at the giant bouquet of hydrangeas that sat in pride-of-place on Vanessa's _Hello Kitty!_ nightstand and grinned to himself.

"Blair Waldorf was here," he said solemnly.

With that, he had settled himself on the floor of her room, throwing a stack of manuscripts at her and tapping into the intranet of NYU – an unparalleled source of pirated film and television. Any intellectual property compunctions Dan may have had, had disappeared somewhere between the first and second series of _Six Feet Under. _While they claimed to be working through all the shows that had ever won Emmy's, Dan knew that really they were continuing the on-going dance around each other that spanned years.

Also, it was a lot easier for Dan to focus on the small screen of Vanessa's laptop instead of the sight of her reading his most recent work.

"Oh vampire Bill," Dan sighed to himself, his eyes glued to the screen as he at Pad See-Euw on the floor. "Don't be intimidated by Eric. You have the greatest power of them all: chivalry." He glanced at Vanessa, reading intently on her bed with her forehead wrinkled in concentration. "Why do I feel like you're not even watching this?"

"What?" she asked distractedly, looking up for a brief moment, before continuing to read.

"Never mind," he said in a long-suffering tone of voice that could scarcely disguise the delight he derived from the sight of her reading his most recent efforts.

She read through the night, leaving a rather peeved Dan to sleep (and nothing more than sleep) while she left the lamp on. In the morning, when he woke, he found her finishing the last pages of the ten-odd stories he had brought for her.

"Do I even want to know what you think?" Dan asked, yawning.

Vanessa gave him a probing look. "They're your best work, Dan. They're…spectacular."

Dan stifled a grin, tempted to kiss her in spite of the lingering smell of Thai and sleep on his breath. "So no notes – nothing to critique? No suggestions for improvements? I'm perfect just the way I am – like Bridget Jones?"

Usually this type of word-vomit would guarantee him a Vanessa Abrams smile. But today, all it managed to garner was another one of those probing looks. With a surprising level of care, she picked up each story and put it into a neat stack. Only when this task was complete did she look up at him.

"My only suggestion would be to change the name of the female lead," Vanessa said carefully.

"In all of them?" Dan frowned. "To what?"

"Blair Waldorf," she said flatly.

"Wait – what?" Dan said, reaching for the stack of papers as if they had been hiding something from him.

"They're all about Blair."

Dan smiled incredulously. "But that's crazy they're not _all_ about Blair."

Vanessa grabbed one from the pile.

_He realized it with the clarity of loss, the way a child loves a scorned teddy bear with one eye only when it is ripped from his arms. He realized that for years she had represented for him the quintessence of what was objectionable: it was the proud arch of her eyebrow, it was the wantonness of her stage shows, it was the way her eyes slipped passed him in the crowd and settled only upon those terrifying men who inspired odysseys. He had called her superficial, had even called her a whore. He had called her many names to fools at the bar, each night he came to see her perform. And yet, it was not until now that he realized that Stella had never been anything but the world's most tragic romance, biding its time until the day it could find a man who wouldn't buckle under the staggering weight of her devotion._

Vanessa looked at him expectantly.

"What?" Dan asked, running his hand through his hair and trying to gather his wits.

"Oh come _on,_" Vanessa laughed, throwing the paper at his bear chest.

"Stella is a burlesque dancer," Dan said reasonably. "She is also a prostitute. And William is no more than a poverty-stricken musician who will never possess her."

"Yeah," Vanessa said matter-of-factly. "William is you."

"Yeah, right. Okay Vanessa."

"Oh my god," she said, grabbing another sheet. "I can't even believe you're fighting me on this. Here – check it out."

_He could not say what had possessed him to come to this place at this time: to stand on the outskirts of a party in full swing, more lavish and beautiful than even she had ever imagined. Perhaps it was to remind himself that he would always stand in the cool night as she danced. For a brief moment, David considered walking into the centre of the dance floor and showing Eve what he had become. She had never been one to baulk at dark places, and perhaps now he would finally be someone she was capable of loving – someone more like Frank, who stood by her side. David knew that even in his human form, Frank was darker and more threatening than any of those who walked only under the moon. But, he stayed where he was. Not because he was afraid that she would be fearful of his loss of humanity. Rather, he feared that even immortal he would never be able to compete with Frank. It was safer to tease the possibility in his mind. It was easier to stay on the outskirts._

"For your information," Dan said snootily, suddenly deciding that Vanessa had no idea what she was talking about. "David has just been made into a vampire, and has gone to the wedding reception of his unrequited love. How does that have anything to do with Blair Waldorf?"

Vanessa reached out to touch Dan's hand. "Face it, Dan. Blair is the new Serena."

Dan jumped as if she had shocked him. "W-what are you _talking_ about? Serena? I mean…You're just tired. And crazy."

"No," Vanessa said, with a hint of sadness in her voice. "And I'm not saying that you're secretly in love with Blair. But that was always the problem with Serena, wasn't it? She used to represent for you this perfect, distant image of what the ideal woman was supposed to be. And then you saw her up close and realized that she was human." Vanessa passed the sheaf of paper back, gently this time, as Dan sat shell-shocked on her bed. "It's perfect, really. Because with Blair, you know that you will never see her up close. That's what works about these stories. No matter whether you're a vampire or a musician. You always work best when you love from afar."

It was a painful, drawn-out moment when Dan realized that she was right. Of course, he hadn't admitted it to her.

"Thank you for that analysis, Abrams," he spat, gathering up his clothes and striding towards the door. "But you have no idea what you're talking about – not about my stories and not about Serena. That's the thing about you. You always work best when you think you know everything."

It had taken him a week to apologise.

But really, it was impossible to deny that the recurrent theme in all his most recent work was a hint of longing as he observed some great love from a distance. When he had first gone to Yale, it had been speculating on Chuck and Blair, under the cover of using them for inspiration. And then, somehow, in the face of Blair's deterioration in Chuck's absence, the stories had become about him desperately wanting to garner that level of devotion in another human being.

Reading his stories again, he saw how crudely he had drawn Chuck's character. Each time, Dan had cast his friend as a powerful force – captivating because of his darkness, winning the girl merely because of the irresistible force of his personality, rather than any devotion on his part.

He was fooling himself; the real reason that Blair and Chuck worked was not because Chuck was a tyrant and Blair had come unique capacity for worship. It was because they were devoted to each other at the expense of everything else. They were each other's life's work, and it was just fate that they should be two such unique and impressive people who were capable of such towering acts of love.

Despite the very obvious element of plutography that coloured each word he wrote about them, Dan had the sneaking suspicion that they would have loved each other just as acutely, just as destructively and constructively, had they lived in a tiny apartment in Queens.

Vanessa was right; it was some of his best writing. But perhaps he was kidding himself, pretending to write about anything other than Chuck and Blair. Experimentally, Dan sat at his desk at Yale, determined to ease his lingering sense that he had done the Chuck-character a disservice in each of his stories.

_There were so many exquisitely cruel ways to hurt someone, and Charles Bass had never balked at any of them_.[1]

That single sentence exhausted him. But, when he picked up his pen once more, he found himself struck by the sudden, fervent need to write and write. By the time he began packing for a more extended stay in New York, feeling obligated to help Rufus and Lily prepare for the first Thanksgiving they would all have together in the Van Der Woodsen's apartment, he found that he had inadvertently written the first chapter of a story that was taking shape before his eyes.

The story of Chuck and Blair.

* * *

It was after 2 a.m., and Blair and Chuck had stumbled into the Van Der Woodsen apartment, a little bit tipsy after a night of lavish food and free-flowing champagne.

There was something intoxicating (_no pun intended_, she smiled to herself blearily at the thought) about living an utterly inconsequential life. For so long, Blair had felt the heavy pressure of classes at Yale, floundering at the feeling of being so far behind that it would be impossible to catch up before the end of semester.

"Did you have a pleasant evening?" Eric asked dryly from her position sitting on the couch.

"We drank champagne with oysters and scandalized society matrons with our moves on the dance floor," Chuck said contentedly, looking over the kitchen counter, as he pulled open drawers in search for a bottle opener.

"What are you doing up so late?" Blair asked, with just a hint of scolding in her voice as she wrapped her arms around Chuck's middle and peered over at Eric.

"In my quest to look more like Edward Cullen, I've decided to start keeping vampire hours," Eric deadpanned, muting the television.

"I think you'll probably end up looking more like the walking dead than Robert Pattinson," Blair mused, reaching over to the fruit bowl and slipping a green grape in Chuck's mouth as he continued to search for the bottle opener with one hand and caress her back with the other.

"Who is this Robert Pattinson?" Chuck asked distractedly, holding up an extremely complex looking bottle opener from the drawer.

"Only one of the most famous - "

"And hottest," Eric contributed.

"He's not really my type," Blair said, eyeing Chuck fondly as he struggled with the imported bottle opener and the bottle of red wine the owner of the Palace bar had insisted they had to sample. "But, really Chuck, have you lived under a rock for the passed few years?"

"I choose to focus my attention on other things," he said with dignity, reaching over for another grape and making as if to feed one to Blair. When she dodged his attempt, he frowned slightly, before placing it in his mouth, biting it in half, and pulling her in for a kiss. For an instant, Blair melted into his embrace, until she felt him force half a grape into her open mouth. Squealing as quietly as possible (mindful of the slumbering house), she tried to wriggle out of his grasp.

"I don't think you're holding it right," Eric commented, casting a critical eye on Chuck's difficulty with the bottle opener.

"I'm holding it fine."

"But see it has to attach to the top," Eric contributed.

Chuck threw him an incredulous look. "I have been drinking merlot since you were a zygote. You really want to lecture me on the intricacies of opening a bottle of wine?"

"Fine," Eric said, turning back to the television, while still glancing at Chuck out of the corner of his eye. "I'm just saying that if you release the lever under the base…"

"That was some stellar butting out," Chuck muttered. "Really, top-notch minding your own business."

"I see someone struggling, I help them," Eric said angelically. "I'm a nurturer."

"I have another word for what you are…"

"I'm going to take of my shoes," Blair interrupted. "Maybe between the two of you, someone will be able to perform the impossible feat of opening a bottle of wine."

"It's a lot harder than it looks," Chuck muttered, loosening his tie.

She grinned to herself, wandering up the hallway to his bedroom. It felt heavenly to kick off her shoes at the end of the evening, and for a moment, Blair sat on his bed, allowing herself the familiar moment of incredulity that sometimes came upon her when she mused about the many ways her life had changed in the last few years.

At Constance, when she and Chuck had been no more than friends and partners in crime, she had viewed close proximity to Chuck Bass's bed as the worst kind of contamination. Then, after the night when he had stolen from her own bed and disappeared from her side in a fog of grief and fear, she had scarcely allowed herself to imagine that she would ever share a bed with him again.

Certainly, she would never have been able to imagine that they would share a bed almost every night, and that a pure and restful sleep was only possible when he was dozing by her side.

In honesty, Blair missed the time they had spent together at Innisfree. While returning to Chuck's adolescent bedroom was thrilling after a night of frivolity made Blair feel so giddy and light that she fancied she might take off at any moment, it was the darker, deeper moments that she longed for. Or perhaps it was the intensity of being alone in the world with Chuck that she felt nostalgic for.

In their bed at Innisfree, they would speak for hours – or they would merely look at each other while trying to catalogue each tightening heartstring that accompanied simply being with each other. They had sat in the library in their own worlds, content to know that her head in his lap meant that they were connected.

At the thought of those summer nights, and her most recent assurances to Eleanor, Blair found herself drawn once more to the bookshelves.

There had been a time when Blair had measured out her life in the pages of a book. Serena had always accused her of treating her life like a motion picture, and for a while that had been true, largely during her relationship with Nate, when her daily life gleamed like a well-polished surface. She so dearly loved films – appealing in their simplicity, in their predictable endings.

In retrospect, however, it was the novel that truly defined her vision of how life should be; the depth of emotion that could be conjured by a single moment and the feeling of awe that came with an emotion written in hard copy that she had never been able to articulate herself.

The shock of literature, when the author reached out a hand from the pages of a well-loved book and grasped her own.

There was a time in her life that she had fallen upon books as the only door out of her cell; they became half her world. And when Chuck had uncovered a rather surprising passion for literature in his own psyche, it had become a world that they inhabited together.[2]

The images came swiftly: the sight of Chuck sitting with a strangely straight back, reading a book with painstaking slowness. He had a habit of reading that way – like a child who associates reading with absolute stillness, with supreme focus. Perhaps it was because he had come to this passion so late in his life, at eighteen when his only other interests were sex and drinking.

First it had represented intimacy: their twined legs, the conversations late into the night about some passage of great literature. But, sooner than expected, reading had become part of the essential DNA of Chuck. He still read sitting up, never at ease, really – more like he was sitting at a school table. But, the thirst for learning had become palpable. It had become a part of him. Or perhaps it always had been; he had simply focused his attention on truly understanding the people around him, unaware that it would be possible to find an entire world in the pages of a novel.

Sifting through her recollections of the previous months of hospital visits and parties thrown by Lily. The drinking sessions with Nate or Serena, depending on who was visiting that weekend. The long degustation menus like the one sampled tonight, followed by even longer sleeps.

There had been deep conversations, of course. Remaining true to his word, after their conversation about Yale, Chuck had taken it upon himself to ensure that they talked about everything (_Because I like the sound of your voice_, Blair recalled dreamily), it seemed that every conversation she could recall had been about her. There was an endless fixation on _Blair's_ passion, on _Blair's _future, and what shape it would take. The last few months had been almost entirely about her.

Chuck never complained, of course. If anything, he encouraged it. Just like Eleanor said, Chuck's entire world seemed to have reduced to the slight frame of Blair Waldorf.

Sometimes Blair had the strange sense that when she left the room, he simply ceased moving. As if her proximity was the sole source of his animation – his drive. It was a new feeling, one that she secretly loved. Before, it had always seemed as if Chuck enjoyed a vast and impenetrable inner life. But now, every surface of him was available to her. Until Eleanor's glancing comment, it hadn't occurred to her to consider this unhealthy.

Lost in thought, Blair found herself thinking over the last time she had seen Chuck settle with a thick book. Scrubbing the day from her face, Blair couldn't recall a single instance of Chuck taking the time to see to anything but their reservations for dinner, Eleanor's hospital visits, Cyrus' trouble with some client.

Freshly washed, pulling on the nightdress that she knew Chuck loved, Blair's eye fell upon the copy of _I, Claudius_ was still sitting on his bedside. Now she remembered: that had been the last book he had set about reading. Possibly before he left for Princeton.

"Victory is mine," Chuck crowed from the kitchen, undoubtedly celebrating a triumph over the wine bottle. "They will erect statues in my name."

"And it only took ten minutes," Eric responded with mock-enthusiasm.

Smiling at their antics, Blair almost hurried down the hallway to rejoin the fun. But, remembering Eleanor's barb, with a hint of trepidation, Blair pulled the book over to herself, opening it to the last page Chuck had read. He had made no progress whatsoever. The fine leather of the bookmark had been stagnating at page 160 for more than three months.

"Please come out," Eric said, appearing in the doorway and causing Blair to slam the book shut guiltily. "He's doing a victory dance. And there is a lot of hip-thrusting."

"Sounds scary," Blair said with an indulgent smile. "Lead the way."

Trying to banish Eleanor's words from her mind, Blair set the book down back on the bedside table and hurried down the hall. It was impossible to worry about anything while sipping wine with her legs thrown over Chuck's lap, as he mocked Robert Pattinson and Eric for his late-night viewing habits.

Tracing the line of his jaw with her finger, Blair thought about that world of books, and the way it paled in comparison to the movements his face made when he was at ease, with family. What did it matter, really, if he never picked up another book in his life? If it meant one more precious moment spent with his skin pressed against her own, then surely that was more life in a moment than could possibly be found in the pages of a novel.

Even as she thought these reassuring rationalizations, and kissed him first on the cheek, then lower on the neck, Blair knew that it wasn't really about reading. It wasn't about what page he was up to in _I, Claudius. _

She recalled, suddenly, the words he had spoken to her while helping her learn how to walk once more, after the car accident that had scarred her knee.

_It just terrifies me how far I would go to…keep you. I have been trying to draw a line in the sand, you know? To say 'here is my limit.' But it seems there's no act of abasement I would not perform just to…to be loved by you._

If he would do anything for her, and she had no doubt in the honesty of his words, then it would be nothing to him to idle away his life, waiting for her to pick a direction. He had always taken care of her too well and himself too poorly. That was the problem.

With a surprising swoop of fear, Blair realized that without constant vigilance, those small parts of him that she loved so fiercely might disappear completely.

It was on this very corner, as the sun had made a rather surprising appearance from behind the clouds, that Asher had murmured to Eric, "_If you think I'm ashamed, then why am I about to kiss you?"_

And Eric, still young and gentle, had attempted a smirk that he would only master after years of cohabitating with Chuck Bass and hoarsely whispered, "_If you're going to kiss me, then why are you still talking?"_ [3]

It had been no more than bad luck and poor timing that had seen Dan Humphrey idling down those stairs: catching a glimpse of something without seeing the full picture. (How often in Eric's life had the confluence of bad luck and poor timing caused a glimpse of an incomplete picture.) Worse still was the hidden threat of Georgina Sparks: out of sight, and yet devouring the full picture, ready to draw it for his family at dinner.

At that moment, feeling the brush of Asher's lips against his own (in daylight! Outside the school!), Eric had been too dewy and romanced to notice the way the taller boy's eyes darted too and fro, searching the streetscape.

Despite the sharp ache of betrayal that accompanied the image of that day when he recalled it, Eric would always remember the brief contact of lips as the perfect kiss. The way kisses were meant to be. The sort that would have some impressive results if applied on the lips of a slumbering princess in a tall tower.

And the strangest part was, despite his apparent bravado, Eric had been within a whisker of walking away: of continuing a longstanding tradition of saying, "_No._"

No - to those thoughts that would come into his mind as if they were alien creatures crawling into his ears. No - to the desire to continue staring after Nate as he pulled himself from the ocean water in the Hamptons. No – to the whispering voices in his soul that would tell him that there was nothing wrong with it anymore, that he was being parochial and lying to himself.

It was hardly scandalous, on that street in that city, to kiss another boy in daylight, outside a school. But, at fifteen and fresh from a stint in a psychiatric ward, Eric had found himself suddenly achingly aware of the many ways people in his world said _No._

His desire to kiss Asher won out by a whisker – the desire to be brave and at least to pretend to be comfortable with these feelings that brewed inside of him. If he had known that Dan Humphrey and Georgina Sparks would see this stolen moment, the timbre of the moment may have changed. The brief surge of bravery may have shrivelled up, and Eric may have passed on his way and not ended up outed on Gossip Girl.

If only he had looked over Asher's shoulder, or across the street, there would have been no attempted smirk and affected bravado. Nothing would have loosened in him and come tumbling out – not then, at any rate, not in the way it did – and everything in Eric's young life would have fallen out differently.

And perhaps, if you followed the loose threads of those inconsequential decisions that conspire to make a life-changing event, Eric would never have found himself on this corner again, sneaking out of school during the lunch break in order to meet with his own P.I.

He could have chosen to use Chuck's P.I., of course. It was, after all, the model that his paranoid brother had presented him with that made Eric even consider retaining the services of an investigator. Eric remembered first hearing about Mike from Chuck, in that smug drawl of his as he rolled a joint in the back of his limo. It had all seemed so debonair and exotic to Eric, fascinated by the way Chuck licked the thin paper sheets to conjure a perfectly rolled joint from thin air.

As time had passed, however, and Chuck had ceased to be an outline of a person – an impression of coolness rather than a three-dimensional human being – Eric had come to view his use of private investigators as almost tragic. What kind of damage had the young Chuck Bass sustained? What made him believe that the people around him were hiding something from him and that the only way to wriggle his way into their confidences was through underhanded tactics? What forces had shaped his view of the world so that he viewed the collection of secrets as a sort of leverage?

Secrets would always be part of Chuck's currency; it was part of what made Blair his perfect match. But, Eric had the sneaking suspicion that Chuck was vaguely embarrassed by his use of Mike's services as an adolescent. Faced with real issues and seemingly insurmountable challenges, Chuck's use of his P.I. was no longer fun and frivolous. It was no longer "almost tragic"; it was entirely tragic.

The first time he had called Nationwide Investigations, Eric had not spared a single thought to the question of tragedy. It had been driven by a moment of paranoia. For weeks, Eric had been determined to simply take Mike's number from Chuck's phone. There was no barrier to his aim; Chuck was uncharacteristically forthright with his mobile when it came to Eric. Further, Chuck would have no reason to ask Mike about Eric – and further, Mike would have to be restrained by some client confidentiality agreement to refrain from commenting (at least as long as Chuck's inquiries were indirect).

But, on the day he had finally decided to set about sequestering Mike's number, he'd been struck by a sudden wave of panic. Chuck was an extremely wealthy, well-connected client of Mike's. What if Mike simply told Chuck about Eric's request, on the basis that Chuck was his best client and that the titbit might be of interest to the idle billionaire?

In a fit of irrational panic, Eric had decided to strike out on his own.

Even now, walking down the street, filled with the elation that comes with playing truant and anxiousness that comes with stepping into completely unfamiliar territory, Eric didn't know why he was so adamant about keeping this whole thing a secret. So what if he was searching for the father that had abandoned them shortly after his birth? Wasn't that a trope so familiar that it had become a cliché?

It hadn't been an intentional secret. In the early days of his curiosity, Eric could even see distinct benefit in telling his family. But, as so often seemed to be the case, Eric found himself coated in a thin dusting of bad luck and poor timing. Serena, who might have been a kindred spirit, was off at Brown or visiting Blair, but always busy, busy, busy. Chuck arrived in town burdened with his own secrets and the mere thought of the sympathetic look on Lily's face would have been too much to withstand.

So, almost without Eric knowing it, the quest for William Van Der Woodsen had passed into the realm of secrecy. And once there, safeguarding the secret seemed to be the most important thing.

Eric arrived too early to the bar. Achingly aware of his short stature, Eric sat in a corner booth, hoping that the bartender would cast a blind eye over his very presence. It was a perfectly ridiculous place to suggest as a meeting point; it was impossible to know who was a patron and who was preparing for a clandestine meeting. Not to mention the fact that the only people he wanted to hide this quest from lived with him, so really he could have met with the P.I. anywhere outside of the Van Der Woodsen apartment.

The fact of the matter was that the entire escapade was slightly ridiculous. From the moment he called the P.I. and felt a strange swoop of panic at the discreet voice of the secretary, Eric had realized that his own personality would simply not do. And so, adopted the only persona that he could think of. Quite simply, he had become Chuck Bass.

And so, when he strode into the bar, he took care to swagger. He made sure that he angled himself just so in his chair, so that one knee created a sharp angle where it bent over the other. He leant back, smirking to himself as he took in the décor of the bar – as if it were faintly amusing instead of completely terrifying.

A bored looking waitress approached his table. "Can I get you anything?"

"A scotch," Eric said smoothly.

She scratched her ear slightly and frowned at him. "Ask me again in five years."

Slightly deflated, Eric shrugged. "An orange juice."

"Sure thing."

Before she turned to leave, he reached out, almost touching her. "Sorry, um," he stuttered in a thoroughly Eric Van Der Woodsen way. "Could you put it in a small glass? I'm trying to look…you know…_not_ pathetic."

"Sure thing," the woman repeated in a slightly kinder voice.

For a moment, Eric was struck once more by the feeling of being completely unaware while standing in the crosshair of two gazes. Looking around the room with a strange feeling of déjà vu, Eric realized that a young woman was staring at him intently. As if his gaze had been the signal that she was waiting for, she stood up and walked over to his table, looking every inch an Upper East Side local.

"Excuse me," she said, with a polished accent that would have passed as adequate even in Blair Waldorf's eyes. "Are you waiting for someone?"

"I am," he responded, attempting to pull the shards of his Chuck Bass mask back onto his face.

"And is this someone an old friend from back home?"

Another swoop of anticipation as Eric recognised the phrase that the gentleman on the phone had given him. Feeling a sudden wave of confidence, Eric offered her a cocky half-smile. "I believe you have something for me," he said smoothly.

"Actually, I can do you one better than a report," she said, offering him a thin smile. "Perhaps you should come with me."

Once more, Eric was on the verge of saying _No._ No – to the reams of paper that had gone into giving him those weekly reports on the progress of the investigation trying to track down Dr. Van Der Woodsen. No – to the frustrating details on his early life, which did nothing to alleviate the desire, the _need_, to find out something real: to look his father in the face and ask him why he had left. No – to this silly feeling he had that there was some mystical bond that a child had to a parent, and that meeting them face-to-face would change everything. No. No. No.

Eric eyed his orange juice masquerading as something stronger before looking up at the pale woman with the thin smile. "Okay."

* * *

[1] Yes, I know, very self-referential. This is, for the uninitiated, the first line of _The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair. _

[2] Based on Michael Ondaatje, _The English Patient._

[3] Several passages are modelled on _Arabesques: A Tale of Double Lives_ by Robert Dessaix.


	8. Chapter 8: Dry Autumn Leaves

A/N: The show is kind of annoying me at the moment, so it was hard to get inspiration. Next chapter I'm planning pretty much exclusive C/B action, so this chapter carries on the story of some of the other characters as well.

_Lightness and Weight_

Sequel to _The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair_

**Chapter Eight:**** Dry Autumn Leaves**

_I remember you as you were in the last autumn._

_You were the grey beret and the still heart._

_In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on._

_And the leaves fell in the water of your soul_

_Clasping my arms like a climbing plant_

_the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace._

_Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning._

_Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul._

_I feel your eyes travelling, and the autumn is far off:_

_Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house_

_Towards which my deep longings migrated_

_And my kisses fell, happy as embers._

_Sky from a ship. Field form the hills:_

_Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!_

_Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing._

_Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul._

Pablo Neruda, "I Remember You As You Were"

* * *

First came the smell of smoke – a vague smell giving way to an overwhelming cloud that made speaking impossible and breathing an agony.

Eric had been sleeping on the couch at Innisfree, secure in the knowledge that his loved ones dosed peacefully on the floors above him, when his sleeping form had been suddenly awoken by the smell of smoke.

Without forming a single word, Eric pulled himself out of the tangle of a blanket that had been placed on him without his knowledge and ran out of Chuck's holiday house; his mind was singularly focused on survival.

It was not until he was outside, next to the swimming pool that he saw the extent of the fire; the entire top floor was consumed by the inferno: and the sight of the towering flames were reflected in the surface of the pool, until it looked like lava to his sleep-addled brain.

It was not until he heard the screaming that he realized the horrible truth: his family was dying.

He willed himself to run back into the house – to die a hero's death. But he just stood there, stock still, until the doors of the balcony on the top floor flew open (_Chuck and Blair's room_, Eric thought numbly) and he caught sight of a human figure, engulfed in flames. It was –

Eric sat up, bolt upright, sweating slightly and trying to fight the vertigo that overcame him at the conclusion of the dream.

The dream had been the same all week – a fire at Chuck's house, as the entire, messy Van Der Woodsen clan and their extended family slept. Each night, the same horror that came with the knowledge that he was powerless to save them, that he was finally, utterly alone.

Eric pulled himself from his bed and walked to the window of his bedroom, pulling on a sweatshirt and running his hands vigorously through his hair.

Turning on the small lamp that sat on the edge of his desk, Eric noticed that the meagre light did little to dispel the thick darkness of the room. It must have been around three am.

For a while, Eric stared blankly out at the street, far below him. Bart had once come upon him, staring out this very window.

"It makes you feel powerful, doesn't it?" Bart enthused. "Standing astride the world like a Colossus."

Eric had made a toneless sound of assent, and Bart had clapped him on the shoulder before hurrying off to a business meeting. He had been faking it; standing at the window form this great height didn't make him feel powerful. It made him feel very lonely and distant from his fellow man – and slightly nauseous.

It was only when he rested his hand on the window pane that he noticed he was shaking slightly.

The dreams had started last week, when he had followed the woman from Nationwide Investigations to a medical seminar, featuring none other than William Van Der Woodsen. Even on that day, Eric wondered at his father's audacity. Had he not worried that his abandoned family might catch onto his presence in the city? Or had he been titillated by this possibility? Was it possible that he _wanted_ to run into the family he had fled from when Eric was still a baby – still someone who needed a father, and needed one quite desperately?

He had been so numb, following after the neat woman who had met him in that bar. And yet, as she smoothly led them into the conference room, and he laid eyes on the man he had been searching for so desperately over the last few months, all Eric had felt was a vague sense of disappointment.

_He's old. _

He _was _old, but this observation seemed to be unworthy of someone casting eyes on his father for the first time. He listened idly to the stories the man spun about working in Tibet, about restoring the sight of children in Africa.

_That's admirable._

Not even a thought – not then, at least – that perhaps Dr William Van Der Woodsen would have been better served by spending some time with his family instead of helping all these strangers.

"I look forward to spending this week discussing the possibility of developing a vaccination that could be administered to as many as 500,000 children by the end of next year."

The talk drew to a close and Eric clapped politely, along with everyone else, only vaguely aware that the private investigator woman was glancing at him curiously. As the man – blonde hair giving way to grey, light eyes, tall, but with a rather lined face – made his way through the crowd.

For a single moment, his eyes landed on Eric, who felt for the first time a thrill of anticipation.

But, the moment passed without any confrontation; it seemed that his father had not been blessed with any particular sixth sense about his proximity to his son. His eyes slid from Eric to the reporter two people along, without registering a single expression.

So, Eric was left there, his heart pounding and his legs frozen as his father swept from the room, followed by an entourage of young medical researchers.

"Okay," Eric said softly.

"Was there anything else you - " the woman asked doubtfully.

"Okay. I mean. No. It's fine."

"I should probably get back."

"Okay."

That had been the end of it. Although, that had been the beginning of a week of nightmares. It was impossible to sleep through the night, after the image of a human fire-ball filled his sleeping mind.

And so, he repeated the process he had undertaken every night that week, turning off the lamp and slipping out of his bedroom door – to the well-stocked drawer in the bathroom. There, he pulled out one of Lily's old Stillnox pills and poured himself a small glass of water.

Looking at his smooth face in the bathroom mirror, wishing that his blonde stubble was more pronounced, wishing that he was not cursed with the light hair and insubstantial features of the Van Der Woodsen clan, Eric shivered in the cool night.

Soon it would be Thanksgiving, and he would not be able to enjoy his holiday with enormous bags under his eyes. Pressing his palms to his eyes, Eric recalled the horrible image of the balcony door flying open to expose a human figure.

It had been Chuck, this time. Eric was sure of it. Last night it had been Chuck as well. But the night before, it had been Blair. That night, the dream never lasted any longer than that door flying open and the anticipation of seeing someone he loved consumed by fire.

Another shiver passed through his muscles. Reaching once more into the drawer, Eric pulled out another sleeping pill.

He hoped to god for a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Not for the first time, Lily Van Der Woodsen stood up and sat down - until she felt as if she were caught in a permanent state of genuflect. Standing at an alter. An alter erected in this achingly modern coffee shop that took itself far too seriously.

She had agonised over the choice of venue, wanting to pick a café that seemed casual, without being down-at-heel. Modern, without being gimmicky. It couldn't be too modern, really, because Chuck would hate anything that didn't have at least a touch of the classical about the edges.

"Something for the young people," she had said to Rufus, as they lay in bed and he counted her fingers one by one.

"Should I be offended that you don't put this much thought into our dates?" Rufus asked, teasing, but with that palpable undercurrent of doubt that always plagued him as he sat in her ex-husbands house, looking over New York City.

She turned to look at him, as if waking from a dream. Because sometimes it took her by surprise to see the love of her life by her side. It was something they shared. For Lily, there was the lingering question of whether he could ever let her voluminous past disappear into the ether. For Rufus, it was the thought of her feeling pity at the sight of the engagement ring he had hidden in his sock drawer months ago, but had not quite found a way to give to her. It didn't help that every time he turned around, it seemed as if the spectre of Bart Bass was bearing down on him. He knew that it bore down on Lily, too.

So, they questioned, and hated, and loved each other just a little bit too much. And when she wanted to stay up late, planning her coffee with Chuck Bass, he would indulge her so long as he was allowed to hold her hand.

"It's _Charles,_" she had said, as if that explained everything. "And he asked me to come with him, you know."

"I know," Rufus said, suppressing a smile.

"He even called me," she said, lying back down to stare at the roof, as if she could scarcely believe what had transpired. "He lives here – but he insisted on calling me to ask me to go house-hunting with him. As if he had to book an appointment."

"Think about his father-figure," Rufus commented. "With Bart Bass, you probably had to book three weeks in advance.

Lily made a neutral sound in her throat, and for a moment, the presence of Bart was almost oppressive.

That morning, Lily had been surprised at her own nerves; Chuck had spent the night at the Waldorf penthouse, so she hadn't been able to see him in person since his odd phone call. At least over breakfast she was able to distract herself with the steadily growing ranks of the household, as Dan and Serena arrived in New York for Thanksgiving. Lily had the sneaking suspicion that it was because of the presence of his adopted sister and…well…whatever it was Dan was to him, that Chuck had felt the urge to escape the Van Der Woodsen loft.

Not for the first time, Lily thought she had caught a glimpse of him, and stood up slightly, before realizing that it was another, dark haired young man. The fact he was wearing jeans should have been a tip-off, but for some reason she felt jittery and uncertain.

Perhaps it had been the oddly formal way he had introduced himself on the phone.

"Hello Lily. It's Chuck. Bass."

There had been a slight pause before Chuck settled on his full name, as if she hadn't known the unique timbre of his voice. That had been the moment that she had known how much this meeting meant to him; if Chuck had insisted on hiding behind the distance of his full name, than surely he was about to engage emotionally.

Lily honestly had no idea how Blair managed to tread the passages of Chuck's labyrinthine mind. She had only been at the coffee shop for fifteen minutes, and already she was exhausted.

"Good morning, Lily."

Of course, the moment she let her guard down, he would appear. She had been craning her neck, hoping to catch sight of him in the off-chance he arrived early, and it was only when she was fiddling mindlessly with the sugar packets that he decided to grace her with his presence.

"Charles," she said, with just a little too much enthusiasm. "Why don't you sit down? I ordered a frapuccino, but I knew you'd prefer an espresso, so I though I'd let you order it yourself. The service here is not at all good. Maybe all the wait-staff spend their time trimming the orchids instead of actually attending to customers. The quince tart is very good though, if you're hungry. Did you eat at the Waldorfs?"

She was babbling, and she knew it. And he sat in perfect stillness and watched her in her discomfort.

"I ate before I came," he said simply. Then, a strange expression passed over his face, as if he were wondering whether he had said the wrong thing, whether there was some kind of etiquette about this sort of thing. He mastered it quickly, but at the sight of it, Lily had a dawning realization. He was nervous, too.

She sat back in her chair, feeling a sudden rush of ease. Smiling serenely she offered him a conspiratorial smile. "Serena is insisting on ingesting nothing but wheat-grass. So, I'm afraid that you're going to have to watch me eat something."

Without seeming to notice he was doing it, he ran his finger along the zipper on the leather folder that he had placed on the table. "Maybe I'll have the quince tart. I hear it's very good."

"And you'll need your strength," Lily said breezily, gesturing to the waitress. "House-hunting is a savage business."

"I like my chances," he said with a wan smile. "I'm always most in my element when things get a bit primal."

Lily raised an eyebrow. "Are you really going to talk like that in front of the quince tart?"

In spite of himself, he snorted slightly. "I do apologise. My excitement got the better of me."

"It's a nice place?" Lily asked curiously.

"It's perfect," he said quickly, a hint of pride in his eyes.

"Try not to mention that in front of the realtor," Lily mused. "Unquestioning adoration is never a strong bargaining position."

"Believe me, I know."

There was a hint of world-weariness in his tone when he said that, and for a moment, Lily was certain that he was speaking about Blair. As the waitress placed her toast and smoked salmon in front of her, she cocked her head to the side and regarded Chuck's face.

"What does Blair think of the apartment? Has she seen it yet?"

Chuck's face was a perfectly impassive mask. Nothing could ever throw him; Lily admired that about him. "I want to do this myself. Surprise her."

Lily remembered the ordeal surrounding Innisfree, when Chuck had sprung it upon Blair, wanting to make a gift of the multi-million dollar property. That had been an unmitigated disaster, with Blair insisting that the gift was too extravagant – that Chuck shouldn't try to buy her devotion, that it was his forever without any incentive.

The argument hadn't exactly swept the nation, Lily thought grimly, recalling scenes of a drunken Chuck stumbling around before the Senior Prom for St Jude's and Constance.

Perhaps her doubtfulness had been evident across her face; Chuck offered her an ironic smile.

"Don't worry," he said, smirking. "I'm not going to try to give it to her."

"I wasn't worried," Lily said, just a bit too quickly.

Chuck raised an eyebrow, before spooning a bit of the quince tart into his mouth. It was a bit too bitter for his tastes, but he smiled slightly at Lily's expectant face. It was becoming easier to fake – this family business. Chuck even found himself quite enjoying the little compromises that came with peaceful co-existence with other people. He had even managed to fall into a good pattern with Eleanor, helping her by casting his critical eye over her designs and potential models as Blair peaked around his shoulder, with her arms wrapped around his middle. He had learnt to bring her cups of tea in those moments (yes, cups of tea he brewed for himself) so she would have something to press to her pursed lips – a default response to the overt physical affection he and Blair showed each other.

"I was actually hoping you could give me a reading on whether it's…you know. Whether Blair would like it. From a woman's perspective."

Lily smiled. "I take it that Blair will be something more than a lodger in the apartment?"

He fiddled with the fork slightly – an out-of-character concession to his nervousness. "I was actually thinking that she might like to live there. You know. With me."

It shouldn't have surprised her; they spent every night together as it was. But for some reason, the thought of Chuck and Blair actually living together seemed more monumental than it should have.

"Well," she said, visibly shaken. "That is a big step." She felt herself wading into uncertain waters; her relationship with Chuck had always been substantially different to her relationship with Serena, for obvious reasons. Had Serena mentioned that she was moving in with Nate, Lily would have felt more able to express her opinion. Of course, who even knew what was happening between Serena and Nate. They were on, they were off. It was impossible for Lily to keep track of where they stood precisely. It was only when both of them were sitting in the same room that they were certain. It was something about seeing each other and remembering the dewy days of their youth and the undeniable attraction that had carried them to this point over the years.

The moment their respective planes departed, they were back to square one. Both Serena and Nate liked their sense of their own freedom, but after so many years of longing and waiting for the perfect moment, neither of them wanted to run the risk of setting the other free.

Chuck and Blair, though. They were a unique case. There seemed to be nothing that Lily could say that would lend Chuck more insight into the inner workings of Blair's mind. He knew every square surface of it.

"You don't have to do this all for yourself," Lily said cautiously. "You and Blair could do it together. Blair has exacting tastes." After trailing off slightly, Lily quickly added, "Not that I'm not thrilled that you asked me to look at it."

Chuck's eyes settled on the middle distance, as if weighing up whether or not he should say the thought that had formed behind his eyes.

"I wanted to do it myself," Chuck said contemplatively, his eyes still distant. "She has Eleanor to worry about, and I think she thinks I'm…" Chuck snapped back to attention, just catching himself in time.

"She thinks you're what?" Lily asked casually, sipping her cold, sugary drink as Chuck sipped his espresso.

For a long time, he stared moodily at his leather folder. "Did you study Eliot at college?"

"T.S.?" Lily asked, thrown by the sudden topic change.

He nodded. "Shape without form, shade without colour…"

"Paralysed force, gesture without motion," Lily finished the line. "That's from 'The Hollowmen.' I used to love that poem."

"Gesture without motion," Chuck said moodily, stabbing at his tart. "Blair wants a bit of motion, I think."

Lily wasn't entirely certain what he was saying, but as always with Chuck, it was better not to press him.

Suddenly, an amusing thought came upon her. "Can you do me a favour?"

"Anything," he said simply.

Lily tried to mask the smile that broke out on her face at that. "When you tell Eleanor that Blair's moving in with you – could you make sure you take a picture of her face?"

Chuck offered her a crooked smile. "Nate beat you to that joke."

"Who's joking," Lily said with an ominous smile. "Now, may I see the pictures?"

His face brightened and he unzipped the leather sheaf. With a sense of occasion, he handed the glossy pictures over to her side of the table. It was a penthouse, of course, with beautiful French doors leading to a central outdoor garden, brimming with stunning flowers and hanging plants. The master bedroom had a view over Central Park, with bay windows and skylights that would offer a stunning view of the night sky. The kitchen boasted every modern convenience, but the spacious living room and dining room were all tastefully white and classical. The only hint of modernity was in the study, where the walls were painted a beautiful purple colour.

"I think I may have died and gone to real estate heaven," Lily breathed.

Chuck smiled smugly, taking his photographs back with a sense of reverence. "The photos don't do it justice." He glanced at his wristwatch. "I'm meeting Blair in an hour, so perhaps we should go see it in the flesh?"

Lily leapt to her feet, all but jumping on the balls of her feet. "I _have _to ask the realtor about that heavenly purple colour. And so much light! I didn't know we _had_ natural light in New York. And all the space for entertaining. I'm almost tempted to throw all the Thanksgiving work onto you! But, I suppose it's a motherly duty to put on a good spread for Thanksgiving. Although, I don't have the best track record."

For a moment, he settled a strange look on her.

"What is it, Charles?"

He shook his head slightly, as if clearing it, before offering her his arm and leading her from the café. A few minutes passed in companionable silence, until Lily had almost forgotten her question.

"You make it easy," he said quietly as he pressed the button at the crossing.

She looked at him quizzically. "I make what easy?"

"You make it easy for me to forget that a few years ago I was totally alone."

As the lights changed and indicated that it was time to cross, Lily found it suddenly hard to swallow. She would have liked to say something to him, to erase the years he passed as a wraith in his father's house. She would have liked to tell him that he was precious to her, and that she would see to it that he was never alone again.

But, the moment passed, as these moments do. And all she could do was clutch onto his arm as hard as she could.

He gave her a slight nod, as if he had understood precisely what she was getting at.

* * *

"I've found it," Nate said in triumph, turning around to face Blair who looked up from the thick book that she held in her hand.

"What have you found?" she asked fondly.

"A book that even if I were on a desert island, with no other form of entertainment, I _still _wouldn't read," he deadpanned.

Blair strolled down the aisle of the library, lifting the cover to see a gold embossed title: _The Medieval Village Economy: A Study of the Pareto Mapping in General Equilibrium Models._

"Ok that's pretty bad," she conceded.

Nate gazed down at the tome, almost fondly. "I would _eat _this book before I read it."[1]

"You know, the point of being in the library isn't to find the most boring book you can - "

"But there are so many solid contenders," Nate interjected.

" – It's to pick books you might want to read," Blair finished, as if he hadn't interrupted her in the first place.

"You're small time," Nate said, shoving the book back on the shelf without checking to make sure it was in its rightful position. "Besides, the point of being the library is keeping you company until Chuck arrives."

Blair shrugged. "What better use of time could there possibly be than keeping my company?"

_Lacrosse, running, touching Serena's hair, eating pizza, watching Serena getting ready for bed, visiting his father in prison limbo, forcing his mother to leave the house, maybe getting naked with Serena_, Nate thought in quick succession.

He had barely been in the city for an hour when Chuck called. Nate had declined to unpack his bag and listening to the sound of the perfect silence of his childhood home. The courts were in recess over the holidays, but his mother had informed him that the verdict of his father's trial would be handed down shortly. Then would come the careful scouring of the decision and the possibility of protracted legal appeals. With each passing day, his mother seemed to shrink into herself. It was, in Nate's opinion, a total buzz kill.

Chuck had asked him to "keep Blair entertained" while he showed Lily the apartment that he was planning on purchasing.

"Of course man," Nate said, eager to have an excuse to escape the confines of his house.

Suddenly, Chuck's breathing hitched slightly. Nate waited patiently, making out the faint sound of Blair's voice. It was difficult to make out precisely what she was saying, but Nate could hear Chuck's much closer voice with a startling clarity. Although he had no idea what Chuck was seeing, Nate knew she must be wearing some party dress.

"Lovely," Chuck breathed. "Unrelenting."[2]

Nate felt a faint pang in his chest. He recalled with surprising accuracy the rainy afternoon when Blair had forced both Chuck and Nate to watch _Philadelphia Story_ – after Serena had gone off to boarding school and was no longer present for the traditional video afternoons. Blair had been going through Grace Kelly's films, the way she and Serena had agreed to. They had never watched Grace Kelly with the same fascination with which they watched Hepburn movies, so each new film was a surprise. Nate had been grateful to Chuck for coming to the video afternoons, although he had never suspected it was because Chuck secretly enjoyed these films, with their rugged heroes and choreographed movements.

Nate had been sitting on the bed, next to Blair, who at some point had scooted away from Nate's side, to pull her knees up to her chin and watch the film with an annoyed frown on her face. Chuck had been sitting on the ground, his back pressed against a wooden chest that had been under Blair's window for a while. He studiously rolled the largest joint that Nate had ever seen, all the while trying to pretend that he had no idea what was happening on the screen.

Nate had not been paying that much attention, wondering idly whether he had done something wrong (apart from the very obvious wrong he had perpetrated a few months ago); Blair had edged away from him in the course of the movie. Usually, when they watched old film stars, she would clutch his hand tightly, as if daring him to run away.

In fact, Nate's eyes had fallen upon Chuck, watching his methodical movements as he attached rolling papers together in a feat of engineering. Perhaps they would be able to nip across the park to smoke it before Blair forced them to watch another movie.

There was something about Chuck's slowing fingers that made Nate look up to see his friend's face: frozen in rapt attention at the sight of the scene unfolding on the small screen. Nate frowned at the screen, wondering whether he had missed a moment of surprise nudity or some kind of malfunction. But, no. It was still the same old fashioned movie.

Nevertheless, Nate found himself paying attention, following the line of Chuck's eyes. The protagonist, Dexter had just appeared from the bushes next to Tracy's pool and uttered that heart-breaking line: "lovely, unrelenting." For some reason, the lines took on a special significance:

"You'll manage. You'll manage George too. Heaven help him if he shows any signs of weakness, or rebellion. "

Nate found himself frowning, the same way that Blair had been for the past half hour. Chuck still watched with a rapt expression on his face as Dexter continued to attack Tracy, as she languished by the pool.

"_I tried hard to figure it out, and I finally figured that your father hurt you deeply when he hurt your mother… So you started demanding perfection. Nobody was going to hurt you."_

And then the crowning insult: "_It's a real pity, too, Tracy, because you'd be a wonderful woman if you'd just let your tiara slip a little. But you'll never be a wonderful woman or even a wonderful human being until you learn to have some regard for human frailty. There's a lot more of you goddesses around than people realize."_

It was at that point that Blair decisively switched off the film, getting to her feel to eject the old video. Nate glanced at Chuck, wondering whether he was going to say anything about cutting off the movie before the final scene.

But, whatever had captivated Chuck about the scene seemed to pass away. "Thank fucking god," he said, placing the finishing touches on his joint. "I thought that movie was never going to end."

That moment, on the phone to his old friend and his former girlfriend, Nate was suddenly achingly aware that even at that time, Chuck had thought him to be some kind of hapless suitor: that Chuck had viewed his relationship with Blair as something of a travesty. Only now that Blair was safely nestled by Chuck's side, there was no need to feel threatened by it.

Nate was aware of the towering intensity of his friends' love for each other, but until that phone call, he had not fully come to terms with the fact that he didn't even figure as a vague threat anymore. Nate had become a sort of sexless innkeeper[3], who could be entrusted with babysitting her for the afternoon.

It was how things were meant to be. But, Nate was suddenly achingly aware of the way he had passed so completely out of Blair's life. There had been a time when he was so important to her, but now he was no more than a source of entertainment until Chuck returned to her.

And so, there was a hint of wistfulness about him when she asked him that question: what better use of time than guarding over her until the only one that could truly be entrusted with her heart? Not a virgin goddess counterfeit, but her complete, imperfect heart that grew so attached so carelessly.

"There is no better use of time in the world," Nate said kindly, pushing these thoughts from his head and answering her joking question.

"At least until Serena is free," she said with a smile.

Nate whistled tonelessly, garnering a few disapproving looks from the other library visitors.

"We should go to the fiction section," Blair said, running her finger over the spine of one of the older books. They'd wandered into the economics section as part of Nate's game of identifying the worst books ever written. She had managed to spend almost an hour pulling some of her favourite novels form the shelves and reading lines of them aloud to Nate, whose reactions had varied from polite interest to repeatedly bashing his head on the surface of the bookshelf.

"No way," Nate said, shuddering slightly. "I learned my lesson from the five hours we spent there before. Save the poetry for Chuck."

"Chuck and I make our own poetry," Blair said with a wicked smile.

"Oh that's great," Nate muttered sarcastically. "That's just the mental image that I wanted to carry around today."

Blair was about to respond, when something behind Nate's shoulder caught her eye. Paling slightly, she grabbed his arm and dragged him into the next row.

"Blair, what the hell - "

But she wrenched his arm painfully, pulling him down until he was half-stooping. Gesturing at him to keep his voice down as he complained about her violent actions, she peeked through a slight gap in the books. Intrigued by her freakish behaviour, Nate peered through the books to catch a glimpse of what had caused Blair to turn such a strange shade of white under her vivid red overcoat.

"Isn't that Dwight?" he asked, watching the old man stare at the business history books with acute interest.

Blair nodded wordlessly, watching with profound concentration as Chuck's old mentor opened a book and quickly became engrossed in the contents.

"What the hell is he doing here?" she hissed.

"Well gee Blair," Nate said, scratching his head in mock-concentration. "An academic in the big building where the books live. Maybe he's planning on making a fort."

Blair ignored him, trying to make out the title of the book: _Tycoons: The Captain of Industry in the Twenty-First Century. _

"He's researching," Blair said furiously. "He's researching that horrible book about Bart."

Nate glanced at her nervously, noting that her voice had raised slightly, so that people were glancing at them strangely. Taking her by the arm, he dragged her a few rows away from the old man who had double-crossed Chuck so brutally months ago. When he finally managed to get a perimeter of safety around Blair, Nate took a moment to look her over.

She was positively shaking with rage. There were two angry red spots on her cheeks, and she was gritting her teeth until her jaw twitched.

"Not that the crazy eye isn't a good look for you," Nate said slowly. "But aren't you kind of over-reacting?"

She whipped around to look at him. "Over-_react_ing? That pathetic excuse for a man manipulated Chuck - talked to a journalist about Jack being his father. He's writing a book that is going to drudge up all sorts of horrible secrets about Bart – and it's going to be just awful for Lily – and Ser_en_a. Not to mention your best friend! And you're telling me that I'm over-reacting?"

"Over-reacting, and now shouting," Nate muttered.

Blair all but stamped her foot. "I just – it makes me so - "

"Wait – Blair, are you okay?"

In her fury, feeling the faint prickling of tears building up behind her eyes, she stamped across the marble floor towards the stairs that would lead outside. Nate hurried after her, but she ignored him.

She had wanted to meet Chuck here, after his breakfast with Lily, in the hope that maybe being near all these beautiful old books would remind him of how much he had begun to enjoy learning before he had left Princeton. In her mind, it had been an afternoon spent in close proximity to that beautiful old book smell, as the dust made slim columns of light in the air.

But to see Dwight, the person who had spent a year building up Chuck's confidence in his own ability to learn before suddenly ripping it all away. Although Chuck rarely spoke of it, she knew, just _knew_, that the betrayal of the only teacher who had ever believed in him had hurt him deeply. She knew it the way she knew she loved to bury her nose in Chuck's maroon sweater and breathe in the scent of him. She knew it the way she knew the feeling of his hands on her bare skin.

"Blair," Nate said softly as she rushed out the door onto the steps. "Are you crying?"

"Of course, not," she said quickly. She wiped angrily at her eyes, humiliated and suddenly very aware of the splotches that would form on her cheeks. "I'm sorry. Also for shouting in the library."

"You weren't talking that loudly," Nate said lamely, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder, briefly remembering the time now long passed that he may have gathered her in his arms.

She laughed slightly, before exhaling heavily and leaning against the sandstone wall. "It makes me so angry, knowing that he's out in the world. Knowing that he caused Chuck pain. As if Chuck hasn't had enough of that in his life." She felt more tears well in her eyes. "I _hate_ that man."

Nate felt a wave of affection for her, so strong that he couldn't help but pull her in for a hug. Holding her close to him, he was suddenly struck by the fact that they had never really fitted together properly; when he hugged her, her face pressed against his chest in a way that must have made her nose itch and her make-up smudge.

It had been a long time since he had hugged her like this, and for the last few years it seemed that the only person who held her in a tight embrace was Chuck. Although he couldn't have said for certain, Nate suddenly felt achingly certain that he and Blair looked nothing like that. When Chuck pulled her into his arms, even in those awkward, glancing moments when he only had one arm free, there was an undeniable sense of perfect symmetry.

Suddenly, Nate was aware of the mean-spiritedness of his sense of his own lack of importance in Blair's life. For a wavering instant, Nate understood the nature of Blair's fury at the sight of yet another of Chuck's failed parental figures.

"I hate to think what would have happened," he said softly into the pale shell of Blair's ear.

"If what?" Blair asked, her face still buried in his jacket.

"If Chuck didn't have you."

Blair found herself stepping away from his warm embrace and his solemn words. Wiping her eyes once more, she stared at Nate appraisingly. "He'd still have you. And Lily – and the Van Der Woodsens."

Nate shook his head, burying his hands deep in his pockets. "It would have been different."

"I suppose," Blair said quietly, before looking up at him through her wet eyelashes with a coy smile. "Things worked out okay, didn't they?"

Nate smiled, wrapping a friendly arm around her shoulder and leading her in the direction of the nearest coffee shop. They could wait for Chuck there. As they walked along, Nate ruffled Blair's hair slightly and let out a bark of laughter as she took a swing at him.

"Yeah," he said, when her small fist connected with his bicep. "Things worked out okay."

* * *

"So," Dan said, bouncing his leg up and down at the table. "Big day."

"Big day indeed," Rufus agreed, sipping his orange juice. "The Day of Thanks."

Dan forked another waffle onto his plate. "While marking the date of the dispossession of Native Americans is undoubtedly big, I was actually talking about another big event happening today."

"Ah yes," Rufus said wisely. "That _other_ big event that will be occurring today."

Eric merely sipped black coffee with a bemused look on his face. That morning, Lily, Serena and Jenny, had decided to embrace the Thanksgiving spirit by doing some last minute shopping, leaving Dan, Rufus, Eric, and a very irritated Chuck Bass to forge ahead with breakfast without any oestrogen to moderate.

Chuck rolled his eyes, wishing for once that Serena were present to steer the conversation back onto puppies, shift dresses, or some other inane topic that he scarcely paid attention to. "What the hell are you talking about, Humphries?"

"The apartment," Dan said, snapping his fingers jauntily. "A master stroke."[4]

Chuck glared at Eric. "You told them!"

Eric shrugged unapologetically, still nursing his coffee without eating. "It's a romantic gesture. I got it out there, tried to get some good will happening. I think it turned some of the guys at St Jude's around on you."

"I swear to god, Eric," Chuck said threateningly. "In the off chance you're not joking, I would advise you to expect that diary of yours to go viral on the internet by close of business…"

"Relax," Dan contributed. "Lily told dad, and Eric assumed I already knew."

"Why would you assume that?" Chuck asked, ignoring Dan.

Eric shrugged. "You and Dan tell each other everything."

Even Dan glanced at him slightly askance. "You make us sound kind of feminine."

"If the Louboutin fits," Eric muttered darkly.

"Anyway," Rufus contributed, shovelling more food onto Chuck's plate and offering him a chuffed smile. "We're all pulling for you."

"Especially seeing the last time you brought a house, it was a complete disaster," Dan contributed, through a mouthful of waffles.

"Thank you, Humphrey," Chuck said darkly. "That is just the sort of pep talk I was hoping for on the morning I ask my girlfriend to move in with me."

"So what's your game plan?" Rufus asked.

"Go in strong," Dan advised. "Women can smell fear."

"No, women can smell the faint aura of tears and masturbation that follows you everywhere," Chuck murmured, causing even Rufus to choke slightly on his breakfast, before shooting his son an apologetic look.

"He doesn't need a game plan," Eric said softly. "Blair would move with him to the Everest base camp. What's a move up the street?"

"But it's a symbol," Rufus said wisely. "And he wants to get this just right."

"Although you don't want to be crippled with indecision so that you don't ever get around to making the gesture," Dan said wisely, not noticing the way Rufus cringed slightly at his words.

Chuck took a purposeful sip of juice before getting to his feet and brushing invisible crumbs from his dark blue suit. "Thank you for the inept advice, gentleman. But I'm afraid I have to take my leave. It is, after all, a big day."

With that, Chuck strode over to the elevator. Before he made it halfway across the room, however, he turned back to face the three men at the table.

"As for my strategy, I plan on telling her that _she _is my home, but that sharing a house with her would be an added bonus." He nodded decisively, leaving them in impressed silence, before pressing the button for the elevator. After a minute of waiting for the contraption to make its way to their level, he glanced casually over his shoulder. "I'll see all of you at dinner. I'll need to replenish myself after Blair and I christen every room in our apartment."

With that, he stepped into the elevator and disappeared.

"So," Dan said, blinking slightly as the elevator doors shut. "Not indecisive, then. Fairly confident."

"Strong strategy," Rufus agreed, sipping his juice thoughtfully.

Eric wrinkled his nose. "There isn't going to be a safe surface to touch in that entire house, is there?"

* * *

Blair half knocked on the door to the apartment, but it opened of its own accord the moment she pressed her hand against it.

She had been puzzled as to why Chuck would want to meet her in this beautiful old apartment block with its elegant lobby and view of the park, but he had insisted that Lily wanted him to check out the real estate in the building – something about Bass Inc. acquiring the building.

Blair had been surprised to hear that he was willing to help Bass Inc. in any capacity, but she was also acutely aware that if Lily asked him for his opinion, he would feel compelled to offer it. A part of her – the part that was deeply worried about his willingness to defer his own future in preference for helping her family – hoped that this brush with business would reawaken that thirst to learn that had once been unquenchable.

With every step down the hallway, Blair felt a thrill of excitement. He was planning something, that much was certain, and after so many weeks of endless hospital visits and parties that seemed to blend into each other, Blair was intrigued by any change in routine. And knowing Chuck, she was probably walking down the hall into some kind of sexual game.

When the door opened and she saw the beautiful doors and the towering ceiling of the entry hall, Blair heard herself gasp. It was, undoubtedly, the most beautiful apartment she had ever cast her eyes upon. But, there was no more than a simple table in the centre of the room, with a white cloth covering it and a small patch of colour that Blair couldn't quite make out from the doorway.

"Chuck?" she called, enjoying the sound of her voice echoing through the house. The echo would undoubtedly be lost when furniture was moved in. Even as she walked tentatively into the house, wondering where on earth her boyfriend was, Blair found herself mentally decorating the apartment.

When there was no reply to her calls, it occurred to her to have a closer look at the table. The flash of colour she had seen from the door was a sleeping mask – and she noticed immediately that it was her own mask, the one that Chuck had given her from the set of _Breakfast At Tiffany's_.

"Well played, Bass," she murmured as she picked up a typed card that said simply, _put the mask on._

As she pulled the mask over her eyes, she was struck by her own vulnerability. Alone in this huge room, with her eyes covered, Blair found herself suddenly achingly aware of her other senses. There was the smell of fresh paint, and a faint aroma of flowers from the central garden just outside the French doors. There was the feeling of the passage of air around her lefts, on her arms.

And then, unmistakably, there was the sound of a door opening and gentle footsteps towards her.

It was strange and thrilling, this feeling of knowing it was Chuck (smelling his aftershave, recognising the sound of his footsteps), but with the vague hint of danger. Even when his hands pulled her coat from her shoulders, and his lips made contact with her neck, her stomach swooped with excitement.

As she stood in the centre of the room, without the power of sight, Chuck set about running his hands over her body, kissing her neck and allowing his breath to cause intoxicating sensations over her skin. He had her pressed against his familiar chest, with her back to him, so that she couldn't gain access to his clothes, to the bare skin that lay just underneath his clothes.

As she all but writhed underneath his hands – and this, still with the majority of her clothes on – she felt him leading her (still blind) through the house.

They seemed to have reached their destination; he oriented her until she was standing completely still, and then stepped back, causing her to whimper at the loss of contact.

"Chuck?" she asked, uncertainly.

"Take off your mask," he ordered.

Feeling thoroughly sexually frustrated, Blair pulled her mask off to find herself standing in a master bedroom. It was even more astounding than the entry, with a skylight and large windows. Blair was about to turn around to face him, until he put his hands on her shoulders to stop her – Blair felt a swell of excitement that he was planning on continuing this game of not letting her see his face.

Running his hands over her exposed arms, he pointed her once more in the direction of two white doors. Frowning to herself, she waited for the next instruction.

"Open them," he said simply.

With that she pulled open the doors to find a huge – even by Waldorf standards – closet filled with -

"Headbands?" she asked, confused. It took a moment for the sight to sink in. "You stole my headbands?"

"I relocated your headbands," he corrected, breathing into the back of her neck.

"You relocated them to this closet?"

"I relocated them to _your _closet," he said in a rush, as if he had planned the dialogue before and was rushing to the end of the scene.

Forgetting about the game, Blair turned around to face him. The very first thing she noticed was his perfectly cut suit: one of his best, she knew. And the instant she laid eyes on his fine lapels, she knew that he wasn't joking.

"My closet?" she asked in a small voice.

Chuck studiously avoided her eyes, walking over to the nearest wall and running a critical finger down it. That must have been the real reason he devised this elaborately sexy game, so that he wouldn't have to look into her eyes while asking her to take this next, staggering step with him. "Our closet, really. And I think it needs repainting, to be honest. We might have to wait a while before we move in your clothes."

Glancing around the huge closet, Blair was overcome with the queer feeling that she was suddenly very young, dressed up in adult clothes. It wasn't until her eyes settled once more on the planes of Chuck's face, that she felt her sense of equilibrium return.

She took a few steps towards him, where he ran a desultory finger down the wall. She put a hand on his cheek, watching the way his eyes closed slightly at the feeling of her palm on his face.

"Chuck," she said softly. "Did you buy this house?"

He nodded once, sharply, but her hand remained where it was. "I didn't you know…I didn't buy it for you," he said defensively, as if her tone had been accusing rather than achingly gentle. "It's time to move out of Lily's place before the entire Humphrey clan contaminate the place. I've always liked this building. So, when I saw that the penthouse was for sale, it seemed like the right thing to buy it." He drew in a shaky breath.

"It is the most beautiful house I have ever seen," Blair said gently, before kissing him on the lips and stepping out of the closet into the bedroom. She moved over to the window, looking down at the incredible view that Chuck wanted to share with her.

When he next spoke, his voice sounded more confident. He moved behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "I told Nate that I wasn't asking you to move in. Not really. I just figured that you could keep your clothes and jewellery here and have meals and sleep here. And you'd have your own key. We don't have to call it anything, really."

"We wouldn't have to," Blair said, teasing the image in her mind, allowing herself, for one insane moment to imagine the picture he was painting. She savoured it in her mind: the image of a perfect future in the present moment. He would give it to her. He would give her anything. He would make any sacrifice of himself to make her happy.

"Because, Blair," he whispered, moving her hair over her right shoulder so he could kiss the sensitive spot on the left of her neck, above the vein. "As long as you're here, I'm home."

She closed her eyes at that. "You're the only home I need," she breathed.

"So what do you think?" he asked, still focusing on that single spot on her neck.

"I think you should go back to Princeton."

She hadn't even planned on saying it, but the second the words escaped her mouth, she felt his weight push down her shoulders, almost painfully. It was as if her words had stolen his ability to hold up his own weight, and so it landed on her shoulders. It was about time, Blair thought solemnly.

"Jesus Christ, Blair," he said sharply, his breath hitting the back of her neck in little bursts. "What the hell is your _problem_ with real estate?"

* * *

[1] Adapted from _The West Wing._

[2] From _Philadelphia Story._

[3] From _How I Met Your Mother_.

[4] Another _West Wing _moment!

A/N: Oh, I totally forgot: Here is the link to a YouTube clip I made. It's an introductory video to the "Unbearable Lightness" Series. Obviously, this site will block the web address here, so just replace the (dot) with .

www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=Y1zmDI6YqT0


	9. Chapter 9: Atonement

A/N: I haven't really been enjoying _Gossip Girl_ recently, in light of the Chuck/Blair drama, but I decided, after the Season Finale debacle, that I should hurry up and write something for you guys.

_Lightness and Weight_

Sequel to _The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair_

**Chapter Nine:**** Atonement**

"Cecilia wondered, as she sometimes did when she met a man for the first time, if this was the one she was going to marry, and whether it was this particular moment she would remember for the rest of her life – with gratitude, or profound and particular regret"

- Atonement, Ian McEwan.

* * *

"Jesus Christ, Blair," he said sharply, his breath hitting the back of her neck in little bursts. "What the hell is your _problem_ with real estate?"

With that, he pulled away from her and strode to the opposite side of the room. Blair took a moment to recover her senses at the feeling of the loss of contact. Blair was someone who planned encounters in her head before entering any scenario. And yet, she had surprised herself with her own pronouncement. This was a dangerous position to be in; neither of them dealt well with being cornered.

"You know," he said slowly, not facing her. "I'm trying really hard not to read too much into this, Blair."

"There's nothing to read," she said quickly, still hopeful that she could avoid the fight they were inevitably propelling themselves towards.

"I thought things had changed," he said, finally turning around to look at her with his face arranged in a hard mask. "I _thought_ we weren't going to do this anymore."

In spite of herself, Blair felt a prickle of annoyance at his tone. "I'm not _doing _anything Chuck. I'm telling you that you can't just hang around in this house. You have to go back to Princeton. Get an education. Get a - "

"A life?" Chuck spat.

Blair stared at him, pursing her lips and looking out the large bay windows. For a fleeting moment, Blair could see an image of them, her leaning into his chest as they sat together at the window. She imagined them talking about going out to get a cappuccino for her and an espresso for him – or maybe they would stay in for the day. Make a stew and make love hours. Once the train of thought began, there was no way to halt it. She was standing in front of a fogged up mirror after her shower, only to feel herself wrapped in his arms as he peered over her shoulder wearing nothing but a towel. They were grocery shopping. They were getting dressed together at the beginning of the day and getting undressed at night. The very thought of it warmed her inside, and she found herself smiling slightly, even in the face of his cold fury. Until, suddenly, she realized what was different about the picture in her head. Then, it struck her. This was meant to happen later. They were meant to do this after graduating from college, after they found jobs and were…grown up.

The image slipped out of her hands and she felt her arms cross in front of her chest.

"That's right, Chuck," she said finally, cool as a sheet of glass. "A life."

"Well," he said, his voice as quiet and frosty as a winter morning. "I am _sorry_ if my leaving Princeton to help your mother has stalled my preparation for finals."

"I didn't ask you to do that."

There was a pause, as he slowly and deliberately turned his head to focus on her face. Blair could feel her chin shake slightly under his focused attention; even she couldn't believe her own audacity. But, having said those heavy, unpleasant words, there was no retreating from it. In the moment of panic she felt the instant they escaped from behind her teeth, she felt her entire countenance harden against him. She waited expectantly for his counter-attack to come, but he just stood there, watching her face, as if he didn't know her in the least.

"I didn't ask you to do that," she repeated, as if he had challenged her. "I would never have let you do that if I'd known - "

"You wouldn't have _let_ me?" he asked slowly. "Tell me, Blair. Since you seem to have such a perfect control over me. How would you have stopped me?"

Blair felt a strange dislocation. They fought so perfectly. They knew exactly where to hit to gain maximum impact. And whenever they thought, the surrounding world would disappear and they would be beyond the present, outside time, with no memories and no future. Nothing but the swelling, obliterating sensation of tearing each other apart. They were the only ones allowed to hurt each other like this. And they always did it face to face, staring into each other's eyes. [1]

"I would have shown you how completely insane it was," Blair spat.

"Insane?" He offered her a slight, unpleasant smile. "It's a pity that insight didn't hit you before you dropped out of Yale."

"You _said_ you understood that."

"I don't understand anything," he spat. "I don't understand how you can throw everything that happened with Eleanor at me when we both know that you're just using it as an excuse."

"An excuse for what?"

Somewhere in the course of their discussion, Chuck had begun pacing before her, gesturing with unusual force, as if building himself up into a state. For her part, Blair stood rooted in the spot, watching him pace as if he were measuring the size of a cage. Finally, he stopped moving, and settled his eyes on her face.

"An excuse so you can sabotage us the way you have everything else in your life."

She recoiled as if he had slapped her. She almost laughed at the thought. What did someone like Chuck Bass need with physical violence when he could hurt her this way with his words?

"Well I learnt from the master, Chuck," she said sarcastically, throwing her hands wide. "And we are in lock step in this one. So don't act like you have the market covered in mature life decisions when you're too scared to reach your potential because Dwight hurt your feelings."

They were face to face now, almost nose to nose.

"Dwight has nothing to do with this."

"Oh yes he does. Don't insult my intelligence by suggesting that the only reason you left Princeton was to help my mother."

Chuck snorted slightly. "I left Princeton because your mother knew that you couldn't handle her illness."

"Well I'm handling it now," she spat. "And my family is my business and I can handle this by myself. So what the hell is keeping you here?"

She didn't feel any victory when his face registered a look of shock. For a moment, he looked at her, as if all his illusions were shattering. For the first time, she considered that she might have gone too far – that there was a possibility that she might have stepped over some invisible line. And as she felt the ground dropping away underneath her, she felt the irrepressible urge to pull him to her, to clutch him and fall with him in her arms.

"Chuck – " she said desperately, stepping towards him – going so far as to clutch his sleeve. Anything to make sure that he couldn't run away from her before she had the chance to explain.

"No," he said slowly, pulling himself out of her grip, resisting her attempts to grab him – to keep him next to her. "You're absolutely right, Blair."

With that, he turned around and strode out of the room. It took her a moment to register that the force of her touch had not been enough to keep him here. It had always been enough before, but for some reason the alchemy that usually came with her skin on his would not save her from the hurtful things she had said. Once she registered his retreating back, she allowed the panic to take her over. Any though of pride and dignity were set aside as she ran after him.

"I didn't mean that," she called after him as she hurried after him. "Chuck – I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

The noise of her heels on the floorboards made a loud, staccato beat as she desperately tried to grab him and he brushed her hands aside.

"Please, Chuck," she said, finally grabbing a hold of him and physically turning him around to face her. His face was still stony and he refused to meet her eyes. "We can talk about this."

He looked down at her hands clutching his forearms, as if he were only vaguely interested in the sight – curious as to how these strange hands had arrived on his person. There was a loud ringing in Blair's ears as her mind raced over the scene. The thought that this would be a moment she always remembered terrified her. The thought that they weren't invincible was terrifying.

"I think I've been fairly patient with you Blair," he said evenly, prying her hands off him as the tears formed in her eyes. "But if this isn't going anywhere maybe we should leave it now while we can still walk away."

"Walk away?" Blair repeated incredulously as he looked at her with a bland expression on his face. She wanted to beat her hands on his chest, she wanted to hit him – anything to elicit some kind of emotion.

"You know," he said, a cruel smirk forming on his face as she felt the queer sensation of her blood turning into ice. "Before we're in too deep."

Blair felt her mouth hanging open, saw the light in the room, felt the texture of her skirt being wrung by her nervous hands. But still, she could barely comprehend what he had said. She couldn't find a single word to say to match the cruelty of his statement, the way he had not only tortured her with the thought of his absence, but even tried to make her imagine that their epic love story was no more than a phase – something they could walk away from.

At least a minute must have passed as she gaped at him. An alien, rational part of her brain observed that him look down at the ground, frown slightly and look up as if he might say something to her. But, he seemed to be struck with the same affliction of speechlessness that had infected her.

Shaking his head slightly, he walked to the front door, looked back at her once, still frozen. He looked down one more time, before opening the door and walking out.

It was only when the door closed behind him that Blair drew in a sharp breath and pressed a limp hand against her forehead. With shaking hands, she looked around the room, as if searching for something to use as a talisman – to ground her and remind her of whom she was.

Not quite knowing what to do, she wandered into the master bedroom. Without really thinking about it, she entered the cavernous closet to see her headbands arranged with painstaking care. He must have put each of them on the rail himself. He had touched every single one of them with those elegant, aristocratic hands of his.

Of course he had done it alone. He did everything alone, really. All the big things. He had walked down the hall to the room marked MORGUE alone. He had mourned his father alone. He had found out that same father had been lying to him his entire life – had never truly been his father – alone. It was not in his nature to ask for help or to lean on people around him.

Yet, somewhere in the course of his vast, empty life, Chuck Bass had found the courage to ask her to take one step closer to him, so they could move forward together. He had sat in this room, and one by one put her silly headbands on display in the closet he wanted to share with her. It was silly and romantic and he had done it just because he wanted this to be a day that they would remember. He wanted to give her one of those anecdotes she could tell her friends. He had done it because he didn't want to be alone anymore.

Falling to the ground, Blair pulled her knees close to her chest, leaning her back against the shelf, running her hand over the scar on her leg, remembering the way she had sent him away from the hospital and he had come back. This would be like that time. It had to be like that.

She pressed her head down onto her knees and wept.

* * *

He beat her to the restaurant by five minutes. So, he sat at a table, rotating his mobile phone in his hand, and idly wondering whether the passage of time would make things awkward between them. Nate wasn't usually one for agonising over social awkwardness, preferring instead to subscribe to the "it's only awkward if we let it be" philosophy. But, he was understandably nervous about seeing Serena for the first time in weeks. Not to mention the fact that the restaurant was comparatively empty, and he felt very exposed and obvious sitting by himself, watching the door.

He scarcely needed to guard the door with such perfection of focus; when Serena arrived, Nate would know it. The entire room would know it.

Trying to distract himself from the questions vying for attention in his head, Nate found himself staring at the face of his phone. No word yet on the progress of MoveInWithMe-Gate '09. Chuck had given him a withering look when Nate had suggested that Chuck send him a text message when Blair agreed to move in with him.

"Yeah," Chuck drawled. "Because that's going to be the first thing I want to do. Text you instead of ravishing my girlfriend."

He laughed over the phone, imagining the look Chuck would be giving him if they still lived in the same city and found time to run down to Central Park for joints. Of course, they hadn't done that for a while. Not since Chuck had suddenly become the romantic lead in a story that Nate had never truly understood. "This is the day you've been training for," Nate retorted. "You can use your one-handed bra thing and text with the other one."

"Or my taking-off-the-bra-with-my-teeth thing," Chuck responded seedily. "And text with both hands."

"Excuse me while I go pour some acid on my brain to erase that image."

"And excuse me while I go get some Vaseline on my hand to - "

The sheer volume of Nate's protests drowned out the end of that particularly remark. He had actually sent Chuck a text that morning to remind him that he was waiting with baited breath to hear what the outcome was – as if there was any doubt that Blair would immediately begin measuring the windows for curtains.

Despite the years that had passed since he was more than a fleeting memory of Blair's romantic history, Nate had known Blair for a long time. And he knew that although the new, sex fiend Blair would probably jump Chuck the moment he asked her to move in with her, the next step would be trawling through her voluminous phonebook and informing all her minions, friends, and family (although probably not Eleanor, not immediately) about the fact that Chuck Bass had asked her to move in with him. And Nate was suddenly very concerned about what Chuck would do while she yabbered away on the phone. Nate worried that he might feel as if he had no one to call, that no one cared. He would be wrong, of course. But, when had Chuck ever known that in the big moments?

So, Nate put up with his insults, and sarcastic retorts, because Nate knew that in a strange, Chuck way, he would be grateful to have someone to tell. And that's what friends did.

At that moment, Serena entered.

Nate looked up, noting with a grim sense of satisfaction that her presence had the same impact it always had: the collective pulses of every man in the room increased tenfold, and the merest smile offered from the corner of her mouth was enough to make the doorman need to sit down.

She breezed over, her face lighting up at the sight of Nate sitting there with what was probably a very goofy grin on his face. He had been so worried about how to greet her – struggling to keep track of where they were in their on-again, off-again relationship – but when she was really there, standing in front of him, he pulled her into his arms, lifting her up slightly and feeling his chest warm at the sound of her giggles.

"I'm surprised you can lift me after the fifteen pounds of chocolate I just ate," she enthused, kissing him on the cheek and leaving an arm around his waist. "Mum made me sample every possible variation of chocolate cake that there is."

"You're as light as a feather," he grinned, intoxicated by her mere presence.

She puffed out her cheeks and hunched her shoulders forward, as if that would be enough to convince him. "How about now?"

"Still all feathery," Nate responded, pulling out her chair and trying to wipe the smile off his face.

Serena laughed before pulling out her sparkly pink phone and putting it securely on the table in front of her. "I promised mum that I'd keep it near in case some Thanksgiving emergency meant that I had to run back home."

"And Blair will probably be calling you," Nate said simply, without realizing that Serena was probably not on the list of people that Chuck would have confided in about the apartment.

"What? Why?"

"Thanksgiving stuff," Nate said lamely.

"Hmm," Serena said thoughtfully, eyeing her phone. "I suppose so. Like, what colour the place mats are so she and Chuck won't clash."

"You know that it's Chuck who does the matching," Nate grinned.

"What? No."

"Truly," he laughed at her scandalized facial expression. "I mean, Blair obviously insists upon it at the formal events, but he always matches his outfit to hers."

Serena leant back in her chair, gazing off into space as if a new world of possibilities were opening up before her. "So all those bowties he wears…a actually _chose_ to wear them."

"Correct."

Her face split into a tremendous grin. "That is just the lamest thing I've ever heard. He's so going to be the one who makes them go for posed portraits. And I thought Blair was bad!"

Strangely, Nate felt a pang of anger at the way she was mocking them. In a small secret space inside of him, Nate had begun to think of Chuck and Blair as the perfect couple – he had sold out to the cult. And a part of him missed being in a proper relationship, which didn't span across the continent, where you would wear matching clothes and want to do all that lame couple stuff which looks stupid to the outside world but is the stuff of magic from the inside.

Serena had been like that with Dan, he mused. Although, even then, their dynamic had always been Dan fumbling about in his endearing way, trying to crack the romance code. Serena would laugh at him and kiss him and he wouldn't know whether to feel proud or belittled. Nate had seen these things, because he always paid special attention when Serena was concerned.

Unbidden, the thought of Blair crying in the library wavered before his eyes. The way her fierce little feet had all but stamped at the injustice of Dwight walking in the world, living a life, after hurting Chuck so profoundly.

Had Serena ever loved like that? Had Nate? Would they be that way for each other? Nate felt his spirits dampen slightly and for a moment he resented Serena her sunny smile and the adorable hat she was wearing to protect her head from the cold. She never worried, never doubted. She just travelled between them without any direction in mind, distracted by the beauty of the world around her and not noticing the way she was the only one Nate, Dan, every man in the room, wanted to possess completely.

"There's another reason you should watch your phone," Nate said suddenly.

"Ooooh wow," Serena chirped, reading the menu. "Would you think I was a glutton if I ordered a burger?"

"Serena, listen to me," Nate said more sharply than intended. She didn't look wounded, merely surprised.

"Sorry, I'm here. Go on."

"Chuck's asking Blair to move in with him. Into an apartment he brought."

Nate wasn't sure why he was telling her this. Perhaps it was to show her that there were people who stopped running around, who settled down. Perhaps he wanted to send her some signal that they needed to figure out what it was they were doing with each other. For the first time in his life, Nate was longing for something substantial.

For a moment, Serena looked exceedingly serious, and Nate thought that maybe they were about to change in some way. But, soon enough her face cleared and she was smiling again.

"Cool," she said simply. "That'll make the colour-coordinating a lot easier. But, they're going to need a closet about half the size of a house!"

Deflated, Nate glanced at the menu. "It would be a crime _not_ to order a burger at this place."

Serena grinned at him, unaware of his dampening spirits. "Okay. But you have to promise not to tell my mother at dinner tonight!"

"Sure. Okay. I promise."

* * *

Less than an hour had passed since he stormed out of the apartment he had purchased for them, and already Chuck was feeling the warm tendrils of alcohol warming the pit of his stomach.

"Getting started early?" asked the young man behind the bar – a backpack, probably. English, with a shit-eating grin that Chuck wanted to punch. He loathed inane chatter from bartenders. What was it about someone sitting moodily at the bar that made bar-staff think they were on the set of _Cheers_?

Chuck gestured for another scotch.

"Sun hasn't even hit the yard-arm," the bartender continued, taking a look at Chuck's expensive suit before reaching for a higher-shelf scotch. "That's something my mum used to say. Can't have a tipple until the sun hits the yard arm."

"Fascinating," Chuck said flatly, taking another searing sip of scotch.

For some reason, the man seemed to take this as encouragement, cleaning a beer glass and shooting Chuck a quizzical look. "So what brings you here so early in the day? On a national holiday?"

"I came for the scintillating conversation."

The man laughed good-naturedly, pulling the bottle of scotch down from the top shelf and putting it on the bar: an implicit reward for Chuck's insult. If there was one thing Chuck couldn't abide, it was blue-eyed men who were cheerful all the time. Except for Nate, he conceded grudgingly.

"Did you have a fight with the family? It's always the same with my folks. Five minutes into the holiday and we're fighting like cats and dogs. 'S all better by the end of the day, though. Just gotta talk it out."

"That'd be difficult," Chuck snapped, "Seeing that my parents are dead."

"Well, that's not strictly true, Chuck," said a voice from behind his shoulder.

It had been months since he heard Jack Bass's voice, but after years of mastering a perfectly blank poker face, Chuck managed to contain the shock that he felt.

"Spare me the running commentary," he said coldly, before returning to his scotch.

Jack breezed through his insult as if it hadn't made the slightest impact on him. "You'll have to forgive my son. He's not very good at getting on with the other children in the sandbox."

Chuck whipped around to find Jack Bass standing behind him. Two things occurred to him in quick succession. The first was that Jack had aged more than seemed possible in such a short period of time. He was haggard and greying, as if the vitality had been leeched from his bones. The second was that Jack seemed to have known he was here and was in fact making himself comfortable on the bar stool two down from Chuck. At least Jack had the foresight not sit directly next to him.

Suddenly, something occurred to Chuck that made him let out a sharp bark of laughter. Jack glanced at him quizzically as if worried that Chuck had snapped completely. He loosened the cravat around his neck and looked around the near-empty bar, as if he were searching for a reason to be embarrassed by Chuck's display.

It must have been the stress of the day. Chuck found his eyes streaming as he laughed. It was unlike him to make such an undignified spectacle of himself.

"What's so funny, Chuck?"

Without warning Chuck stopped laughing entirely, as if all the mirth in his face had been consumed by a black hole. Jack pulled back slightly, as if sensing that the cause of Chuck's laughter had not been an amusing anecdote about a rabbi and priest, but had in fact sprung from a darker place.

He turned his dark, almond-shaped eyes to Jack's own and for the first time, Jack realized that he had Constance's eyes – down to the finest detail.

"It just occurred to me," Chuck said slowly, his face the very picture of haughtiness. "That you knew I was going to be here. That you sought me out, on this day of all days, out of some misguided…_fatherly_…instinct. Because – and tell me if I'm right, because this would be just precious – you wanted to spend Thanksgiving with your son."

The last three words of his sentence hit Jack's face with brutal force, although he had no more than whispered them.

"So I suppose you don't want your gift," Jack said with a devil-may-care shrug.

"Suits me just fine."

"Don't you have plans tonight?" Jack asked, fiddling with his wristwatch.

"Yeah I've got plans," Chuck intoned, rotating the drink in his hand to hear the clang of ice on glass. "I plan to ingest as much scotch as physically possible…"

"And then you plan on becoming acquainted with the bathroom floor, I imagine," Jack interjected wryly, before ordering them a mezzo plate. "To line your stomach," he explained when Chuck shot him a look. His traitorous stomach rumbled slightly, as if to prove Jack's point. Chuck glared at the bartender who was chatting away with Jack as if they were long-lost brothers.

They probably were, Chuck mused. It wasn't as if his family situation could become _more_ Jerry Springer.

"Just to be clear," Chuck said grudgingly when the plate arrived from the kitchen. "Just because we're eating from the same plate doesn't mean that we're eating together…we're not having a meal together on Thanksgiving."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Why? Because you think at my weekly meeting of the "My Son Wishes I Was Dead" Club, I'm going to boast to the other dead-beat dads that we had a lovely Thanksgiving meal together?"

"I don't really know, nor do I particularly care," Chuck responded, before dipping a piece of bread into some eggplant dip. He glanced at Jack, who was suddenly deathly pale. "What?"

Jack shook his head mutely. There was no way Chuck could know this, but he had just quoted his mother verbatim. The morning after their first tryst, and he had approached her at a brunch, willing to accept her death glares for the opportunity to be near her after their intoxicating (and intoxicated) evening together.

"_What are you doing here?" _she had all but spat at him.

"_What do you think I'm doing here?_" he had responded, all awkward youth and affected detachment.

"_I don't really know, nor do I particularly care._"

Shaking his head to clear it, Jack settled his eyes on the olives in front of him. "I'm surprised. I would have thought that you'd have plans with Blair."

Jack searched his profile for some indication as to what had transpired between them. Because it had to be about Blair. His whole black, toxic bearing had to be about Blair. His almost careless attempts to wound Jack – even Jack, who he hated, would usually be rewarded with no more than a few cold stares and some biting remarks rather than this childish display of venom – all of it was about Blair. There was nothing else in the world that could cause Chuck pain, could ruffle him so profoundly as some altercation with Blair.

Jack recalled suddenly the

"I'm fairly sure that I just broke up with her."

"Fairly sure?" Jack asked faintly, utterly blindsided.

Chuck stared at his own hands moodily. "How do you know exactly if you've broken up with someone?"

"Did you repeat it three times?" Jack asked, in a doomed attempt to use humour to diffuse the situation. When Chuck offered him a nonplussed look, he pressed on, "_Tulaq_? Repeat "I divorce you" three times? Not even a glimmer of recognition?" Chuck shook his head and Jack sighed. "You really need to get back to Princeton."[2]

"That seems to be the general consensus," Chuck murmured darkly.

"So why did you break up with her," Jack asked.

"Why does anyone do anything?"

"That answer is beneath you," Jack responded, adopting the same business-like tone that seemed to be the only way to get a non-sarcastic response from Chuck.

"Why did you steal Bass Industries from me?"

"To give you a chance at having a life."

Chuck snorted. "That answer is beneath you." He glanced over at Jack, focusing particularly on the fine sprinkling of grey in his once dark brown hair. "And congratulations, by the way, on your astounding managerial skills. Bass stocks are reaching record lows. If Bart were still in charge, he'd have a shotgun in his mouth."

"If Bart were still in charge, he'd have his department heads up against the wall."

"True," Chuck gave him the smallest nod.

Jack picked up another olive – bursting with flavour and stuffed with marinated capsicum. In a parallel universe, where Bart had never cast his eyes skyward and decided to reshape the horizon, Jack Bass from the docks would never have been able to afford these little extravagances that came so easily and carelessly people like Chuck, who had always had money.

"So I'm curious," Jack said evenly. "After everything that's happened between you and Blair, after all you've sacrificed to be with her. What pushed you over the edge?"

"The sudden realization that we were reading from different scripts."

"What script were you reading from?"

Chuck appeared lost in thought. "It doesn't matter. I was kidding myself."

A morose silence fell over both of them. Jack hadn't really seen Blair and Chuck interact up close, but he had, as Chuck seemed to intuit, been keeping an eye on them from a distance. During this exhausting process of slowly but surely combusting Bass Industries from the inside, Jack had found himself replaying over and over the words Harold Waldorf had said to him at the meeting when the Board of Bass had voted Chuck out and he had liquidated his shares.

"_Because I'm a father…and one day you are going to be very sorry that you've made your son your enemy."_

"_Chuck doesn't need a parent."_

"_No. But one day you might find that you need a son. And when that day comes, there will be no saving you._"

That morning, Jack had sat up to find his suit already hanging from the wardrobe. Usually, Jack made a game of it: counting to five before forcing himself to jump out of bed. But, for some reason, the image of his carefully prepared choice of outfit was the saddest image in the world. He lay there for at least twenty minutes before he marshalled enough energy to slip his feet into a pair of slippers and walked purposefully into the bathroom.

It was as he stood at the mirror, looking at the spreading wrinkles that sat over his face like a cobweb, that Jack realized that today was Thanksgiving, and that he had absolutely nowhere to be. Deep inside, Jack felt a gnawing, undeniable loneliness. There was something about morning – it was always during those early hours that the signs of decay were most pronounced.[3]

Chuck had called him on it brilliantly.

There was a small pool of water on the bar, where the condensation from the glass had dripped onto the dark mahogany. Running a finger through it, Jack felt an undeniable sense of his own sad existence, reduced to a barely countenanced meal of nibbles with the son who wanted nothing to do with him. His son, who right now, was the picture of misery himself. It was in the slight glimmer in his dark eyes, the glimmer that told Jack that if this day were allowed to pass the way Chuck envisaged it, it would end with him reduced to tears, alone, and possibly sitting on a fairly unhygienic surface.

"I'm going to give you your gift regardless," Jack said suddenly. Then, with the slow movements of one unaccustomed to doing something nice, Jack reached into his jacket pocket.

"Is it Wii Fit?" Chuck asked sarcastically. "Because I really had my heart set on getting a Wii Fit."

Wordlessly, Jack handed him a letter that had obviously been read and re-read many times. It was folded over and over, into what was possibly the smallest square that the elegant cream stationary would allow. Without handing it to Chuck, Jack opened the envelope and pulled out the letter.

"Dear Jack Bass," he recited. "I am writing to you because I know that Chuck would never dream of giving you the benefit of his conversation. He may be able to move on from the events of this spring and the many and various ways you have betrayed him, because he has always been stronger than any of us – stronger than you, who is too weak to deserve the title of father. I am writing to inform you that although Chuck will move on to the many great and towering feats he is destined to achieve, I will never forget what you have done to him.

"I want you to know that I will hold onto this anger until the day I die. You will never be forgiven. The knowledge of this may not even impact upon your narrow, brittle soul and you might even laugh at me for sending this. But, I hope that over time the knowledge that there is someone in the world who would always think of you as no more than a despicable, wretched…" Jack glanced up with a half-smile. "Expletive, expletive, expletive. Will somehow seep into your bones and poison you from the inside.

"You are utterly undeserving of even the stationary this is written upon, but there is one more thing I want to impress upon you. You have come out of this struggle a far poorer man. You may have your ill-gotten empire, but you have lost something far more valuable. It is my intention to ensure that Chuck never spares you a second thought. I plan on making sure that Chuck's life is so happy that it cancels out your entire miserable existence.

"Warm Regards, Blair Waldorf," Jack finished, before placing the letter back into its envelope and handing it to Chuck. "The 'warm regards' is what makes it gold."

Chuck mutely stared at the envelope, and Jack could almost have sworn that there was the faintest hint of a smirk underneath his utterly blank expression.

"Well," Jack said, swallowing the last of his drink. "I must be off. I have a roomful of dead-beat dads to tell about my magical Thanksgiving lunch."

Chuck didn't acknowledge him in any way, just stared at the creased envelope in his hand.

* * *

Dan was enjoying a brief moment of peace in the too-crowded house when the elevator let out its cheerful little ding to announce that he was no longer alone. In spite of himself, Dan let out a very audible groan.

"Well that is the reaction that every girl dreams will accompany her arrival," Blair dead-panned, pulling her coat more closely around her and hurrying through the living-room where he sat at his computer, surrounded by piles of paper. "At east, Humphrey. I won't be disturbing you."

His first response, at the sight of her and the irritating tightening in his stomach that seemed to be accompanying her arrival these days, was to try to shove the papers he had written out of view. This accomplished, he noticed suddenly that she was almost entirely out of the room, headed down the hallway.

"Wait, Blair," he called, half tripping over the leg of his chair. "Who are you looking for?"

"Serena," Blair said flatly, still not facing him.

"She's with Nate."

"Eric?" Blair asked, hopefully.

"Out with my dad."

Blair sighed. "Lily? Some miscellaneous doorman?"

"I'm the only one in the house," he said with a half-smile. But when she turned around to face him, her face was exceedingly pale and her eyes were touched with red. It appeared as if she had removed her make-up – and for Blair Waldorf this was unheard of.

"Well, then," she said primly. "I suppose I'll leave."

"I could make you a coffee," he blurted out as she tried to push passed him. He hurried over to the lap-top, shutting it tightly before moving towards the kitchen. "It's good. I mean, good might be putting too fine a point on it, but it's got caffeine in it. A lot of caffeine. Trust me, I know."

Blair sighed heavily, before walking over to the table and sitting down. Dan supposed that this was meant to tell him that he was allowed the honour of making her a coffee. Even this thin veneer of sarcasm couldn't distract him from the fact he was making Blair Waldorf a coffee.

He had tried to deny Vanessa's words – that Blair had come to be the new Serena in his eyes, in his writing. But, as always, she was right. In the sleepless nights that had followed, Dan had taken to dissecting each of the symptoms of his devotion to Blair. He had ultimately concluded that he had fallen for the heroine in his story rather than the flesh and blood creature that was removing her scarf and exposing her beautiful silk dress and the nape of her neck.

The base of the neck is Chuck Bass's kryptonite, Dan thought suddenly as he carried a coffee to her totem-like frame. Chuck Bass, the man who had asked Dan to keep an eye on Blair because Dan was someone who could be trusted.

Swallowing slightly, feeling awkward with his too-dainty cup and saucer (he had chosen them because they suited Blair). Blair seemed in no mood to speak, staring blankly at his closed laptop.

"What happened with the apartment?" Dan asked, before mentally hitting himself on the forehead. Her red eyes should have been a give away that things had not gone particularly well.

"What are you working on?"

Dan considered lying, but at the sight of the dried tear tracks on her pale face, he felt as if there would be something distasteful about lying to someone so breakable. "Actually, I was just…practicing I suppose. I was trying to describe Chuck. He's…tricky." He looked at her, gauging her reaction as her eyes slipped down to the surface of the table.

"May I see it?" she asked, already reaching for the thin piece of paper before he had even agreed. For a moment he stared at that small white hand, and wondered what it would be like to wrap his course, tanned palm around it. He wondered what it would look like to see his hand entwined with hers on the table between them.

He forced his mind to clear itself of these images and wordlessly handed over the paper. For a moment, the thought of her reading his writing distracted him out of his reverie; in many ways she was the foremost expert in Chuck Bass. Her opinion counted. It counted just a little bit more than it should have.

His mind was a traitor.

She read the words on the thin piece of paper with concentration, until a line formed in the centre of her forehead.

"You make him sound harsh."

A feeling of panic bloomed in Dan's chest. "I wasn't trying - "

"I mean, you captured his harshness," she said simply, as if referring to a fictional character. She laid the piece of paper flat and slid it across the table. He reached out to take it, but she kept her palm flat upon it, not allowing it to escape her grip. "But you make him sound so certain. As if he were carved in stone. As if nothing could change him."

"What happened at the apartment," Dan asked suddenly.

"I think Chuck just broke up with me," she said flatly.

"Wait – What?" Dan gasped, spilling his coffee on the saucer. "Are you serious? What do you mean? You can't be serious. Why would he – I mean, that's just insane. You're crazy."

"Do you ever not speak?" Blair asked quietly.

"Not really," he said, eyeing her, trying to figure out if she was moments away from breakdown. "But, you must have misunderstood him, Blair. He wanted you to move in with him."

"We had a fight."

"Fights happen," Dan said, remembering in a swift montage the many and various fights he'd had with Serena, Natasha, and Vanessa.

It sometimes seemed as if that was what relationships were about: each new person presenting a new opportunity for some new pain. Until he had laid eyes on Chuck and Blair and had seen that the right person could transform you. They had started out such needy, neglected, cruel children – and Dan had not been able to imagine them finding their way to each other, had been certain that they would destroy each other. Then, something miraculous had happened, and they had both been transformed by it. If that was no more than an illusion, then all the reams of paper that Dan had written were a lie.

"You know, Humphrey, I was thinking about you on the way over," she said suddenly. "I was thinking about the way you are with…everyone." She looked across at him, and he stayed absolutely still under her gaze. "You're so…" Dan's heart started beating faster than it ever had before.

"I'm so what?" he asked in a croaky, dry voice.

"Simple," she said finally, unaware that her choice of words felt like a swift punch to his gut. "You're just…nice. No agenda, no hidden motives. What you see is what you get."

Without realizing it, without even taking the time to ponder it, Blair had articulated exactly what he most loathed about himself. He envied Chuck Bass, not only for his relationship, but because he walked through the world with real burdens, with a man's secrets. He made Dan feel comically weak, far too young, and capable of no more than producing a running commentary.

He resented her, as well. For not seeing the ways Dan and Chuck were alike. She probably would have laughed at that. But Dan felt them, he perceived them, although no one else ever would. They both thought too much and read too much into the world around them. They were both curious about human nature, but while Chuck had come to the conclusion that humans were inherently flawed, Dan liked to believe (needed to believe) that there was an impulse towards good that could be found in every person under the sun.

But, Dan would never be the main character in his own story. The weighty roles belonged to people like Chuck. Dan was destined to play no more than the supporting role – the wise-cracking friend. He couldn't even play the wise and removed author. For a moment, it seemed to be an unbearable injustice.

"Blair," Dan said suddenly, seriously. "There is something I've been meaning to mention to you."

It was only in moments like this that Dan saw her concern for him. It was not all his imagination. He imagined telling her the words he felt bubbling up inside his mouth. For the life of him, he couldn't predict how she would react to them.

"What is it, Humphrey?"

"I, um. I suppose that I just wanted to say that even if - "

But, what he just wanted to say, she would never know. Because right on cue, the elevator _ding-_ed and the doors opened to expose Chuck Bass, wearing a long black coat and managing to steal the scene by doing no more than step out of the elevator.

Blair forgot entirely that Dan had been mid-sentence, watching in mute shock as Chuck walked across the room and stopped before her.

"Would you excuse us for a moment, Humphrey?"

"I –uh…sure. Yeah. Okay," Dan agreed, swallowing his sense of dismissal and collecting his papers together.

As Dan made a move to leave the room with his laptop, he paused slightly at Blair's chair, feeling the strange urge to remind himself of the brief look of concern that she'd had for him moments earlier.

"I'll just be up the hall," he said lamely. For some reason, Blair did not rear up at him with sarcasm or withering looks. In fact, it looked as if she might have said something sweet. Dan's heart tightened slightly at the sight of her soft expression.

"Good to know, Humphrey," Chuck said, before she had the chance.

When Dan left the room, Blair waited patiently for Chuck to speak. When he didn't appear inclined to speak, Blair stood up and walked over to the couches near the fireplace. As if holding a white flag before him, Blair sat down on the armchair.

"How did you know I was here?"

"I didn't," Chuck said simply. "The doorman - "

"Vanya," Blair corrected.

"Vanya told me you were already up here. Said you looked sad and that he hoped I could clear you up."

Blair said nothing, merely staring at him, trying to convey that she was in the arena unarmed – that this didn't have to be a fight.

"You know," Chuck said contemplatively, looking at the fireplace, shoving his hands in his pockets. "There was a time when I was ten – about a month, probably – when Bart decided to take an interest in my education. He taught me to fence. He made me stand before him and recite the details of great battles. I forgot the exact dates of the Battle of Somme – we were in his office at Bass Industries. And I remember him standing up, turning his back on me and dismissing me. That was probably the last time he called me into his office without there being some kind of arraignment he needed to discuss with me."

"Chuck - " Blair started, softly.

"Do you know why he taught me those dates? Taught me how to fight? I asked him once. And he told me that everything was a battle. He was just trying to give me the edge." Chuck settled his eyes on her, watching him with her brilliant eyes, her face shell-shocked and withdrawn. "So how did you learn how to fight like that?"

"I suppose I'm just a natural," she said.

"I ran into the old man today," he said suddenly.

"Jack?"

After a brief pause, he nodded. "We accidentally had Thanksgiving lunch together. He gave me something."

He passed her a small, folded note. She recognised it immediately. She searched his face for anger. "I know it wasn't really my place, but I was really angry with him."

"Blair…"

"I hated the thought of him just walking around thinking he got away with it," Blair felt her eyes misting up.

"Did you mean what you said?"

"Which bit?" Blair asked, avoiding his question.

"About how you wanted to make me happy."

"I'm not doing such a good job of it today, am I?" She held out the letter for him to take, not needing to read it again. Every word of it was inscribed on the inside of her eyelids. Every word held true to this day.

Chuck shrugged. "You've had your moments." Chuck looked down at the ground before accepting the proffered letter and folding it reverently. "You didn't…come here to…you know. To pick up your things, did you?"

Blair gaped at him from the chair. "I came to see Serena."

"Really?" he said, a hint of doubt in his voice.

She cut her gaze away from him. "I came to be here when you got back. Because, I don't know what you think happened at that apartment today, but I just wanted to tell you…" she swallowed tightly. "We don't end like that, Chuck. You and me – if we end, we don't end with a few sharp words and then walking out the door."

"That's exactly how we'd end, Blair," he said in the saddest voice she had ever heard. "But I - "

"No, wait," Blair said desperately, still sitting in her low armchair. "Whatever you're about to say, I just have to say this first. Because this was all my fault." She took a deep breath. "I can't lose you," Blair whispered. "I couldn't bear it. You're all I want, Chuck. And that terrifies me." She took in a shuddering breath, looking at her hand that sat in her lap. Sometimes she looked at Chuck's hands with such fascination that she would find herself pausing a moment, wondering how it was possible to love so ardently every single inch of another person. His hands were enough to bring tears to her eyes and there were moments when she was sure that the sentiment would just tumble out of her mouth and it would be too much for him. Looking up at him, standing there so stoically with his hands balled with anger, shoved deep into his pockets, Blair felt a moment of sheer terror at the thought that she might lose him. She swallowed and looked back at her hands. "I just don't want - "

"What?" he asked, his voice perfectly controlled and emotionless.

There was something about his proud, disdainful face that made her heart break. This is what he did, erect these barriers to protect himself. She knew that the way she knew the faint trace of hairs on his hands and the faint ridges on his nails, with the occasional white spot. That was the part that scared her most; if this whole romance of theirs slipped out of her hands and shattered at her feet, she knew with an aching certainty that he would shut her out entirely. There would be no halfway for them. His heart, once closed to her, would be gone forever.

"You're Chuck Bass," she said, her voice wavering slightly. There was a flash of surprise in his eyes, before he regained control of his features. "I mean, you're the most extraordinary person I've ever met – you are, Chuck. You're just…you amaze me and you frustrate me and I can't be without you. And if I stand in you way…"

It may have been her imagination, but his bearing seemed to soften slightly. "Blair - "

"Let me finish. Your whole life people have let you down. You stopped trusting people and we all lived up to your worst expectations. Even me. I was meant to be the one who understood you, and at Cotillion…I mean…God, I'm babbling."

For a moment he stood there, silently, watching her fumble with the words that refused to form themselves. She had once said to Cyrus that only a masochist could love such a narcissist. She'd been no more than a young girl at the time, only just learning what love was. She found suddenly that she couldn't look at him, standing there so impassively. He was the only one who could make her feel this way.

But then, as she stared at her hands and tried to figure out a way to make him understand, she became aware suddenly that his hands covered her own. She looked up to find him kneeling before her, any vestige of his mask gone.

"I'm still mad," he said, smiling slightly as he pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear.

She smiled slightly. "So what are you doing down here, then?"

"You're down here," he said simply. "I'd follow you anywhere."

It was about that moment that she burst into tears.

A look of alarm passed over his face, his eyes darting across her (undoubtedly blotchy) visage as if searching for the source of her tearfulness. Without uttering a word, he pulled her to his chest, letting her tears stain his immaculate shirt. This feeling – that he didn't have to speak, that he might be angry but he couldn't stand watching her fall apart without helping to keep her together – all of it was too much for her. She sobbed into his chest, clutching him until she found herself sitting in his lap on the floor.

"I'm sorry," she said as he wordlessly held her to his chest. "I don't want to let you down, Chuck. Ever again. I don't want to be someone who disappoints you. And I don't want to drag you down with me. You should be in Princeton, reading and learning and becoming the great person I know you're meant to be. Not sitting around looking after my insane family while I try to figure out what to do with myself."

He lifted her chin, kissing the mascara stained tear tracks that now lined her face. He had a strange half-smile on his face and Blair frowned at him, feeling foolish for being so emotional in the face of his vague amusement. But, her frown was forgotten when he kissed her lightly on the lips.

"Move in with me," he said simply.

"What?" Blair whispered.

"Move in with me."

"Chuck, you haven't been listening to me – I can't…"

He silenced her with another kiss before wrapping his arms tightly around her. "I hear you Blair. I heard you last time, when I brought Innisfree for you. You were right that time. But this time, you're just wrong."

"How can you - "

"When are you going to get it, Waldorf," he interrupted her, resting his chin on her head. "Life is never going to match the picture you have of it in your head. You think I should go back to Princeton. I think we should talk about it." He pulled back to offer her a wry smile. "Seeing that's our new _thing_." She couldn't help but chuckle slightly at the sarcastic emphasis he put on the word 'thing.' "But all that stuff – everything else. That has nothing to do with what I'm asking you. Life is always going to be there. Things don't have to be in a particular order. We'll deal with whatever comes when it comes." He lost his smile and looked at her seriously. "But I want to live with you. That's the only thing we're talking about. Do you want to live with me?"

Blair smiled slightly, before pressing her forehead against his. "I'd follow you anywhere."

But, he wouldn't accept any ambiguity in this moment. "Blair," he said more forcefully. "Will you move in with me?"

Very slowly, very seriously, she nodded. "Yes. I'll move in with you."

* * *

[1] Based on _Atonement_.

[2] Divorce under _Shari'ah_ law is effective if the man repeats "I divorce you" three times. Jack is alluding to the fact that he's spent time in Saudi Arabia.

[3] Based on "America: A Prophecy" by William Blake.

**A/N: **Next chapter there are a lot of surprises in store – to compensate for a largely emotional chapter this time around. I love your reviews; I'm always amazed and moved by the ones that go through particular quotes that you enjoyed, moments that made you sad, or lines that spoke to you. Thank you so much for reading.


	10. Chapter 10: Written on the Body, Part I

A/N: Sorry for the long wait for this chapter. I've been busy looking for grad jobs! I am now gainfully employed and a lot less stressed, so I thought I owed you guys a chapter. Also, I've noticed a bit of angst about the Blair/Dan situation. Come on, guys! Have I ever demonstrated anything but avid love for Chuck/Blair? Wouldn't do it to you! I am just interested in Dan's feelings towards Blair. Also, please excuse the rather long flashback. It's been a while since I did any and I really enjoy writing them. Plus, I've been skimping on the C/B fluff. Anyway, enjoy!

_Lightness and Weight_

Sequel to _The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair_

**Chapter Ten:**** Written on the Body, Part I**

"Written on the body is a secret code only visible in certain lights: the accumulations of a lifetime gather there. In places the palimpsest is so heavily worked that the letters feel like Braille. I like to keep my body rolled up away from prying eyes, never unfold too much, or tell the whole story. I didn't know that Louise would have reading hands. She has translated me into her own book."

- _Written on the Body, _Jeanette Winterson

* * *

**Five Months Earlier:**

Over summer, when Blair and Chuck had been making their pilgrimage across the world, they had stopped in to visit Roman and Harold.

Nothing was going to plan. Chuck had desperately wanted to hire a Mercedes-Benz convertible from 1957, until he had remembered that generally, having a license was a prerequisite for hiring a car (even in the South of France, where insane drivers seemed to populate the streets). No amount of money had swayed the pedantic owner of the rental service. It was simply not worth the insurance risk of having Chuck Bass drive off the side of one of the winding streets and plunging to his death.

At that, Blair had quite simply grabbed Chuck's hand and dragged him out of the rental place.

The next leg of their journey, as they had planned it in the long nights they spent in luxurious, gauze-covered beds, would be to the pressure-points of the earth. They would look into the dark maw of the earth until it spat them back out into their privileged lives. Looking back on their journey, Blair had a sneaking suspicion that it was their journeys across India, into Tibet, and even to the very edge of North Korea had changed her in ways she couldn't quite articulate yet. She was left with a lingering sense of her own insignificance: that across the world, in crowds vying for a cup of rice, no one knew or particularly cared who she was or what she did. It had shaken her, and when she arrived at Yale, she was visited once more with this sense of insignificance. It made her feel small and she resented it deeply.

At this stage, however, their journey had reached the towering pinnacle of luxury, and Blair could tell that Chuck would have liked to enjoy their final week lounging by a pool or sitting in restaurants, rather than staying with Blair's father and his lover.

"We're just going to have to hire a driver," she said stubbornly.

"I bet Bogart didn't have a driver."

"Was that a _Sabrina_ reference?" Blair asked, delightedly.

Chuck shrugged, slightly embarrassed.

"You, my friend," she said softly, pressing her body against hers, so he could feel the silk of her dress. "Are totally pussy-whipped."

Before he could react in outrage, she all but skipped to the car rental guy and requested a driver, startling the man with her fluency and the perfection of her accent. He was clearly astounded to see that the gauche American who had tried to bribe him had such an enchanting, metropolitan companion.

"You could have helped me convince him to just give me the car," Chuck murmured, until he realized that having a driver would allow him to dedicate his energies to slipping his hand up Blair's thigh as she playfully swatted it away. Their driver looked ready to spontaneously combust with awkwardness by the end of the considerable journey to Harold and Roman's compound.

It took a while for Blair to notice that Chuck was nervous. There were no sweaty palms, no stuttered words, but Blair could feel it in the tension of his shoulders – she could feel it in the way he seemed to close in on himself. She could read it into the way he forced himself to straighten his back.

She supposed that it was fair enough, in some ways. The last time Chuck had seen Harold, the great fraud of his paternity had been exposed and he had been rather unceremoniously ousted as the head of Bass Industries. While they seemed to have reached a sort of entendre, Blair knew that Chuck was never as comfortable with Harold as Nate had been. Harold had been comforted by Nate and Blair's relationship: something in the combination of Nate's obvious restraint and Blair's girlish innocence had reassured the man that she was still his little girl.

The same could not be said for Chuck Bass.

Strangely, it was Eleanor who had embraced Chuck. Despite Blair's love for her father, she knew that it was Eleanor who knew her best out of the two. Eleanor, who saw her flaws and recognised her burgeoning womanhood. Chuck's strength heartened Eleanor – reassured her that Blair would be safe. While Harold, suffering under the tyranny of distance, had to live on his memory of Blair as a younger girl. When his eyes were opened to Blair's less angelic side, he had blamed Chuck.

"Have I mentioned that I love you today?" Blair whispered in his ear as they trudged up the path to where Harold and Roman stood, waving frantically.

"You may have mentioned it once or twice," Chuck said with a small grin.

"Oh," Blair said, pausing for a moment. "Have I mentioned how much I want to jump you right now?

Chuck's mouth went dry. "You have the worst timing in the world."

It was then that Blair was engulfed by Harold's hug and Roman wrapped his arms around Chuck, pretending not to notice the way that Chuck stiffened under his embrace.

"I apologise in advance," Roman whispered ominously before releasing him.

"What?" Chuck began, before noticing that it was his turn to greet Harold.

The two men stood before each other, as if taking the measure of each other. Then, without any warning, Harold's face broke into a big smile and he clapped Chuck on the shoulder.

"Come on, Charles," he said genially. "Let's go get you a drink."

For the rest of the lazy afternoon spent lounging on the balcony and looking over the sprawling property. They had taken a quick tour, largely for Chuck's benefit before settling down for their afternoon gins and tonic. The property was beautiful, with not just the main house, but also a coach cottage (which Chuck secretly hoped would be relegated to Chuck and Blair during their stay) and a beautiful greenhouse that Blair seemed particularly taken by.

She ran her hands over the flowers and vines that strained to be free of their pots and strained towards the glass ceiling. It was warm and humid, and Chuck noticed hungrily that a fine film of sweat had collected on her décolletage. It was beautiful, he decided, strolling through the rows of lush green shrubbery and teasing a Venus Fly Trap or two. For the life of him, he couldn't imagine what it was Roman had been apologising for. As they collected a generous array of Harold's finest wines from the stand-alone cellar that settled low and understatedly next to the main house. When they emerged from the dark depths, Chuck found himself blinking against the warm sunlight, his arms full of bottles, as Harold stretched contentedly.

"Nos ago recedentia ex res of vir," Harold said, gesturing at the low hills and the baying sheep. He glanced at Blair. "Translation?"

_I'm a massive wanker,_ Chuck answered silently, biting his tongue.

"We live far from the things of man," Blair replied automatically.

"You are such a nerd," Chuck said with a grin.

Blair threw him a mock glare. "Exsisto curiosus. Ego most castro vos."

Roman and Harold crowed with laughter, while Chuck made a mental note to learn some conversational Latin. Of course, only with the Waldorfs did Latin constitute casual conversation. He really needed to up his game to keep up with them.

It wasn't until the sleeping arrangements were announced that Chuck began to understand the meaning behind Roman's apology. It seemed that Blair would be sleeping in the room that Roman and Harold had designed for her, while Chuck would be sleeping on the other side of the house: with five rooms (including Roman and Harold's) in between them.

"Daddy," Blair said with an eyebrow raised. "You realize that protecting my virtue at this point would be a little pointless."

Chuck felt his cheeks warm in an unusual display of blushing. This was one of the indignities that almost made Chuck regret leaving his playboy lifestyle behind. None of the girls he had bedded in his debaucherous little suite had ever made him interact with their parents.

"Yes, well," Harold said clearing his throat. "Thank you for that mental image. But this is my house. And it is a _traditional_ house."

Roman, Chuck and Blair simultaneously raised their eyebrows.

"Well," Harold stammered. "Traditional in _some_ ways. And while you are here, I will ask you to respect some of the house rules." Chuck did not miss the faintly threatening look Harold cast him. _Or Else. _"Is that clear?"

"Of course," Chuck said weakly, while Blair glared at her father.

Chuck had of course had no intention of honouring his word to Blair's father. The first night, he had stumbled around the dark halls, searching for Blair's room. It was only after he had knocked over a vase and stepped on Cat that he entered what he thought was Blair's room. The fact that it turned out to be the master bedroom was an unhappy surprise. Harold had frog-marched him back to his quarters, chiding him as Roman muttered about Medieval parenting strategies and totalitarian fathers.

After two agonising days of playing croquet, riding horses, and swimming in the luxurious pool Harold had installed in the backyard, Chuck finally found himself alone with Blair by the pool.

She was wearing one of her patented Lolita-style swimming costumes: a one-piece with a teasing, plunging neckline. She was wearing large sunglasses and was relaxing in the sunlight. Chuck couldn't stop staring at her legs as they crossed and re-crossed on the long deck chair. He couldn't understand how she could be so cavalier about their dire situation.

"Honestly, Chuck," she said finally, lifting her sunglasses. "How long do I have to lie here half-naked before you make a move?"

Chuck moved so fast that he half stumbled over his own deck chair. He had never felt like such a teenager as he tripped over his towel in his eagerness to reach her. When he finally reached her, he climbed onto her chair, grinning as she moaned and ran her hands through his hair. He kissed her with vigour, enjoying the feeling of her hot skin, covered in sunscreen.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he groaned into her neck. "This is a nightmare," he whispered. "Do you know how many times Harold checked on my last night?"

"How many?" Blair asked with the hint of a smile.

"Twenty-seven. I kid you not."

"I tried to talk to him about it yesterday," she said apologetically. "And he informed me that he hadn't designed my room so it could become a sex den."

"Please don't say sex," he moaned, trailing kisses down the neckline of her swimming costume. "It's hard enough watching you flounce around in these sexy little dresses."

"It's only for a few more days," she grinned.

"Easy for you to say," Chuck complained. "At least you could wear some of the clothes you brought for Morocco."

"You want me to wear a headscarf?" she asked clearly amused.

"It's okay for you," Chuck responded. "There's no…_outward_ sign of your sexual frustration."

In spite of herself, Blair moved her hips under him, grinning at the feeling of his erection. "It's a pity that Daddy will be back in a few minutes."

Chuck blanched. Throwing her an annoyed look, he got up, hurried over to the cold pool and threw himself in. It was just in the nick of time as Harold and Roman arrived carrying drinks.

"Glad to see you enjoying the water," Harold called to Chuck, who had pressed himself protectively against the wall nearest where Blair was lying. He muttered something unintelligible in response.

Despite Blair's mocking, she was feeling fairly frustrated herself. Watching Chuck slowly unwind in the cool water, chatting to Roman as he drank a fruity cocktail, Blair found herself shifting uncomfortably on the deck chair.

It was strange how they had ended up here: from friends to lovers to something she could scarcely describe.

There was something strangely intoxicating about the thought. During their stolen week after she and Nate had broken up, she had found him attractive not only because he was – dark hair, pale skin, with a strong nose and jaw, and those deep-set, hypnotically dark eyes – but also because of the strange thrill that came with the unlikelihood of being coupled with someone as inappropriate as Chuck Bass. It was a frisson born of the taboo, amid the elegant parties she frequented and the strict social order she maintained, she had taken up with someone who was not only antithetical to the image she had of an appropriate mate, but who could also have destroyed her life with no more than a lazy flick of his wrist.[1]

She had assumed that it had been the same for him, at least at the beginning. The thrill that comes with possessing the one thing that you had never expected to hold in your hands. And he _had_ possessed her – again and again – until she was convinced that he had left some kind of mark on her. Marks to parallel the ones she left on his back.

She should have seen hints of the fact that it was more to him. But it was only now that the full implications of their relationship truly reached her. Quite apart from her sexual frustration, she missed the feeling of falling asleep with him next to her. She missed the feeling of being physically close to him. When their eyes locked, with Chuck in the pool and her chatting to her father, she felt a familiar flip in her stomach. She still wasn't immune to his magnetism. Far from dimming their desire for each other, Harold had inadvertently fuelled it by keeping them apart.

Later that day, as the sun set, and as Roman and Blair started putting together a delicious array of food, Chuck found himself relaxing into his white cane chair. He glanced through the window to see Roman teaching Blair how to chop vegetables properly. He smiled to himself at the sight of her looking so contentedly domestic.

He had never really known many domestic scenes in his life. Dinner with his father had always been accompanied by a knot in his stomach and a lingering, insurmountable sense that he was letting Bart down in a way that he couldn't quite understand. Even when Serena, Eric and Lily moved in with them, Chuck had felt like an outcast: not included in their little rituals, an unwelcome interruption to their daily lives.

Things had improved, certainly, when he had moved in with Lily after Bart had died. In Eric he had found a brother, and in Serena, he had found some of the friendship they had once shared.

But, Chuck didn't need to be a writer of Humphrey's stature to know that he had spent his early years driven by a quest for some semblance of family – reaching towards them and then whipping his hand back at the merest sign of rejection. Even when Bart died and Chuck convinced himself that family was bullshit, he had been drawn to the warm celebration of Eleanor and Cyrus' wedding, and into the warm embrace of the one person who had ever felt like home to him. Of course, things were tentative between him and Blair at the time, confused – they were still testing each other, to see how far they could push without breaking.

Chuck cast an eye over Harold, who seemed perfectly contented as the strains of Billie Holliday reached them on the balcony.

"It must have been a relief," Chuck said suddenly.

"Hmm?" Harold asked, awaking from his midsummer stupor.

"Living in New York," Chuck responded. "Hiding yourself, hiding the person you were in love with. It must have been a relief to come here and find that you were allowed to be who you were."

Harold regarded Chuck, wearing his immaculately white outfit – interrupted only by some navy blue piping - and still somehow managing to look unquestionably elegant. As usual, Harold had found the way Chuck and Blair matched – her silky blue dress was the exact same hue as the details on his shirt – slightly ludicrous. As if anyone needed a visual reminder of the palpable connection between Chuck and Blair. It was the very same connection that scared the hell out of him, while also filling him with a sense of melancholy at the thought that there could be someone in the world that his daughter treasured more than him.

Without warning, Harold let out a loud bark of laughter. "God, Chuck. You really don't _do _small talk, do you? Couldn't you spend a little time talking about the weather before jumping into my deepest secrets?"

Chuck smirked slightly in response. "I already know what the weather's like. And people are far more interesting when they're less polite."

Harold shook his head. "You know, you'd make a good lawyer."

"I think I've had my fill of lawyers," Chuck said simply, alluding to his spotted past. More than once, Harold had been at a dinner party with Bart when he'd received a phone-call from whatever police precinct was holding his son. It had been easy, then, to reassure himself that Blair and Chuck were only technical friends – thrust together as a result of her comfortable relationship with Nate. Of course, that had changed when he had found out that Chuck and his daughter were anything but casual acquaintances.

Harold was still embarrassed by his behaviour when Blair had been in hospital. It had been the desperate clinging of a parent who had lost touch with his daughter. He would have liked to explain himself, but he knew that Chuck would never really understand until he was a parent himself. To bring it up now, just as Chuck had begun to relax and a few minutes before dinner – well, there would be no better way to guarantee that Chuck would scuttle once more inside the iron fortress of his own mind.

"You and Blair," Harold said suddenly. "You started…courting Blair just after she broke up with Nate, did you not?"

Chuck tried to focus in the face of the flurry of images that flowered in his mind in response to Harold's question. Blair dancing, that first night in the limousine, the unexpected discovery of a heart in his pocket, where he had stashed it years ago.

The memories did nothing to assuage his acute frustration. "Yes," he said hoarsely. "We…courted…the night she broke up with Nate."

Harold rolled his eyes; he could almost hear the inverted commas around the word "courted" when Chuck said it. "And you love Nate."

"We're just good friends," Chuck said smarmily.

"You know what I mean," Harold said bluntly. "You love Nate the way I loved Eleanor."

Chuck scratched his chin. "I probably don't love Nate enough to impregnate him with a child, but I'll accept your analogy."

"So there was relief, yes, but there was also a horrible feeling of betrayal. At first, I fought it, I told myself I could do without it. And Roman accepted that. He was friends with Eleanor and he never wanted to upset our family. But, then, one night, I found myself standing in front of Roman's apartment. He asked me what I was doing there."

"What did you say?"

"I said I lacked the strength to stay away from him. It was months before I'd finally gather together the stones to walk out of Eleanor – to leave Blair in the most cowardly way I could. But that was the moment. That was the moment I crossed the line."

"What was different?" Chuck asked, genuinely curious.

Harold considered the contours of his question. "There was an attraction, of course. But part of it was the forbidden element, the way Roman would stand there, so beautiful and untouchable and scrutinised by Eleanor's photographers. I'd just watch – and Eleanor would watch me watching. Even after we first…"

"Courted?" Chuck offered helpfully.

"Right," Harold chuckled. "Even after we _courted_, I was romanced by the notion of the forbidden. But, it wasn't long before I saw that it was more than that. I was in a bind, I suppose. Either I had to see this through to the end, or I had to bow out immediately. But how could I do that?"

"How do you live in a world where they exist and not be with them?" Chuck asked intensely. "And you think that maybe it would be easier to hate them, because they started this and it had nothing to do with you. You never even knew you _had _feelings like this until you met them. Maybe if you just get them to go away you can go back to how you were."

"Yes," Harold said, startled. "Yes, that's it exactly."

"But you never can," Chuck said, so quietly that Harold thought he might be talking to himself. "It's like a blind man opening his eyes and seeing for the first time. You can't go back to being blind and forget about what you saw."

Chuck sat back in his chair, his eyes suddenly guarded.

"Chuck," Harold said after a long pause.

"Yes?"

"I'm very tired today," Harold said.

"Oh?" Chuck asked, non-plussed.

"Yes," the man said meaningfully. "I think I will be sleeping very heavily tonight. I probably won't even leave my room."

Chuck grinned slightly as Blair and Roman returned to the balcony and lured them to an ample table full of delicious food.

That night, after the household had retired to sleep, Chuck snuck out of the house, to knock on the glass doors that formed one of the walls to Blair's room. He was wearing his pyjamas, and he smiled at Blair's elegant ivory nightdress.

The moon was full behind his head as he reached out to touch her cheek. Kissing her slowly and deliberately on the cheek, he pushed her hair behind her cheek. Blair wasn't sure she had ever seen anything so heartbreakingly beautiful as the sight of Chuck in the moonlight.

"Will you come for a walk with me?" Chuck whispered.

A hundred reasons to say no jostled in her mind: they would get dirty, they may wake up the groundskeeper, and what about Harold's rules? But her mouth refused to utter anything. Slipping on a pair of galoshes, she closed the door behind her and laced her hand in Chuck's.

They were heading in the direction of the greenhouse. They didn't speak as Chuck gently led her into the glass structure.

"What are we doing here?" Blair asked as Chuck opened the door to expose not the usual number of lamps, but at least two dozen old-fashioned lamps illuminating the greenhouse with candlelight.

"Chuck," she said, her throat tight with emotion.

He smiled to himself as she stepped into the beautiful room and turned around in a circle. Apart from the illumination caused by the oil lamps, the moon was particularly bright that night, and its entire force seemed to target Blair's dark hair.

Under the moonlight, next to the hyacinths, his hair still slightly wet from his shower earlier, Chuck found for a moment that he couldn't speak. His eyes almost failed, everything blurred around the edges, and for an instant, he was neither living nor dead, he knew nothing, was nothing; everything in the world came down to a single point and it was where she stood.[2]

It was then, for the first time in his life, that Chuck thought: _I'm going to marry this girl._

He never mentioned it to her. Never said a word about it, even when she was pressed against the side of that greenhouse, moaning into his mouth, still wearing her galoshes and white nightdress as his pyjama pants pooled around his ankles.

* * *

**Five Months Later:**

Even today, months later, in his bedroom in New York, the thought stayed with him.

Chuck's hand traced shapes on her right hip, signing his name over and over on her flesh and smiling slightly when flesh raised in his finger's wake. He realized, suddenly, that he hadn't answered her last question. It seemed as if both of them had forgotten that Blair had even spoken, their hooded eyes taking in each other's bodies, naked and unashamed on his bed in Lily's house.

"You realize that when we move into our place we won't have to be quite so…" he searched his mind for the appropriate word, the pads of his fingers working away as if they were printing blocks on a typewriter, printing his name on her body. Blair was almost certain that her heartbeat adjusted according to the rhythm of his drumming fingers. "Restrained," he said finally, smirking to himself as if it were a great joke.[3]

She bit her lip as his hand slipped beneath the sheet that covered her only to the highest point of her thigh.

"Well that is a relief," she murmured. "Because I was feeling suffocated by the restraint we've been exercising."

He shrugged without much interest, preoccupied by the sight of her body, still pressed flush against his. "You were the one who insisted we move to the bedroom."

"I didn't want to scar Humphrey for life," Blair whispered, wrapping her hand around his arms and feeling the moving sinews of his arms as his hand moved tantalisingly slowly.

"He's a big boy," Chuck said without sympathy. "He could probably learn something."

Blair found herself letting out a low moan, before pressing her lips to Chuck's lower neck, stealing an opportunity to inhale his scent. Sometimes, in these moments, when they were so firmly lodged in the physical, Blair found herself contemplating how long they had known each other, the way they had formed around each other. There were times when, despite the intense intimacy they shared, a sense of unreality would overcome her. Intellectually, she could remember the time when she had viewed him only in two dimensions: capable of towering heights, but unfamiliar with the depths of human interaction.

She scarcely noticed when he rolled onto his back, so that her entire weight rested on him, and his hands settled at the base of her spine. She had learned to read the signs in his gestures: she knew that when he did this he didn't necessarily contemplate sex, but rather that he just wanted to feel the anchoring weight of her body. Of course, most of the time, they quickly became preoccupied with the pressing need to move closer and closer until they couldn't help but give into the longing they harboured for each other. But, lying there on his chest, she pressed her hand against his cheek and smiled at him.

_You're Chuck Bass._

This was the thought that came upon her in these moments, accompanied by a sense of vertigo. No matter how comfortable and familiar the contours of his face became to her finger tips, that thought – modelled on his own signature phrase – crept into her brain. The first time was on the night of her seventeenth birthday, when he had handed her his heart in a jewellery box, and she had first realized how much she loved his hands. Perhaps, if _Chuck Bass_ could care for her, she was something after all.

In a strange way, that remained true. She feared that if the bright image of his face blurred slightly, then so would her own. Only two hours had passed since she had agreed to move in with him – into that beautiful apartment he had brought for them. She knew what he was doing, casually mentioning their plan to move in with each other in order to gauge whether she had changed her mind.

"I was thinking that maybe we should go to that auction Lily mentioned last week," she said shyly.

Chuck groaned, aware of the teasing way she moved her hips. "Yeah, or we could sign up for some Chinese water torture." He smiled at the feeling of her laugh passing into his chest.

"That sounds like fun as well," she said, peering at him through her eyelashes. "But I don't think it will help us find art to put up in the apartment."

He knew that she could feel the slight skip of his heartbeat – could hear the tender, vulnerable space she inhabited in his chest. There was a time when the thought of being so exposed to anyone was a horror. And now, these moments were precious enough to place in boxes and store in a vault.

"We could always steal the Prada painting from the hallway out there," he suggested.

"I think Lily would notice," Blair commented. "Besides, I want to pick things that…you know…match us."

"We could put up massive framed pictures of ourselves naked."

"Bearing in mind that my mother will probably come over at some point," Blair said wryly, lifting herself up on her elbows and running her hand through his dark peppering of chest hair.

"I have a pretty overwhelming mass-appeal," he said modestly. "But your point is well-taken. Maybe I can commission an artist to paint our portraits – the way they did in medieval courts."

"You with two basset-hounds, me with a tapestry."

"Maybe we should just frame the letter you wrote Jack," Chuck said with a smile, glancing at the heavy parchment on his bedside table. He had placed it there so carefully, as if it were something surpassingly precious to him, rather than a scribbled rant. Even now, his eyes sought out its narrow lines and folded surface.

They were alike in that way: both valued the importance of objects and the power that human beings have to imprint themselves upon inanimate trinkets. She kept all his letters, even the painful ones.

"That would be something," she mused. "If we could just frame the artefacts of our lives. Letters as paintings and gifts as sculptures."

"The way they do in the houses of famous people?"

"Exactly," she nodded, moving her hair over her shoulder and enjoying the sight of his eyes clouding over at the sight of her neck meeting her shoulder. "I remember going to Charles Dickens' house in London. It seemed so silly to me at the time, the way they'd just display a fork and put a little card next to it to make it something. To make it represent something more than it is. I mean, it's a fork, isn't it? Who cares who ate from it?"

"I think it's the way we make ourselves feel significant. As if we can transform objects by interacting with them."

Blair thought about the letters he had written to her that she had guarded jealously, protected from harm and stored as a painstaking record. All those notes that Serena had written to her in class at Constance had been so carelessly thrown in the garbage. What made _his_ notes so much more significant? Because he had written them with his hands and formed the words into sentences.

"I think we do transform objects by interacting with them," Blair said finally.

There was a brief pause.

"So do I," he said softly.

She sighed and pressed her ear against his chest, listening to the now steady thrum of his heart. "We should probably buy the artworks though. Decorating is the fun part, right?"

Without warning, Chuck manoeuvred himself so that he was on top of her, with one of her legs instinctively curling around his waist.

"That's not the fun part," he whispered. "_This_ is the fun part."

She had to agree. But, glancing at the clock she realized that lunch would soon be upon them.

"Everyone will be arriving soon," she said in response to his protests. "And I need a shower."

He lay back down on his bed, releasing her wrist and allowing her to leave the bed. She was completely unashamed of her nakedness before him, and his eyes devoured her. She only made it a few steps before she threw him a seductive look over her shoulder.

"Well? Are you coming?"

_I'm going to marry this girl._

_

* * *

_

He was standing at the mouth of a fairly dingy Brooklyn alley, looking into the distance even though he knew that he should be focusing only on the vague end of the brick wall, where any moment the man he had arranged to meet would appear and there would be a sudden spike of danger.

There was a slight gust of wind, causing Eric to pull his over coat tightly around his midsection. It had taken some artful manoeuvring to give Rufus the slip. Luckily, back in Rufus' stomping ground, there were a multitude of friends in the cafes, who gestured for him to join them.

"You go, Rufus," Eric said. "Get a coffee. I'm going to check out the newsagency."

"Are you sure?" Rufus asked, already edging towards the grey-haired man in the leather jacket and the woman playing a tribal drum. "We have a lot of Thanksgiving shopping to do…"

_Would your mother let you go to the newsagency by yourself?_ That was the implicit question that Rufus didn't ask.

"I'm sixteen," Eric said with a smile, aware that Rufus hadn't asked him the question. Nonetheless, with a wolfish smile, Rufus hurried off to his friends.

Eric liked Brooklyn. It was something he would never admit to Chuck or Blair, but he liked the fact that every second building seemed to be an artists commune, or a fledging movie studio. And he liked the village atmosphere of the shops – the way they knew their customers as Rufus or Dan, rather than Mrs. Bass and Mr. Van Der Woodson.

Sometimes, Eric wondered what it would have been like to be Rufus' son. What would it have been like to be born into the crowded loft that smelled like chilli instead of the pristine white of the Upper East Side? Eric could imagine himself sitting on the sofa, reading, writing, doing whatever it was he wanted, with Rufus praising him no matter what the outcome. Perhaps Lily would have pursued her photography and they would live together in an arty commune.

Eric shook his head as if to clear it.

Rufus cared for him. That was enough. Certainly, his mother's boyfriend cared for him a lot more than William Van Der Woodsen, who, it seemed, would be spending still more time in New York. Who hadn't thought to call his ex-wife and his ex-children. It boggled Eric's mind: how did a man like that walk through the streets without worrying about the family he had discarded so carelessly?

Rufus cared for him. But, he cared for Eric in a way that always seemed to consider Lily. Lily would like them to spend time with each other. Lily would kill him if something happened to Eric.

It always seemed to be that people liked Eric because of one of those qualifications. It seemed to his lot to be liked because of his relationship to others. Except, of course, Chuck. There was no particular reason that Chuck should care for Eric the way he did. Even though he didn't doubt that Blair cared for him as well, Eric knew that a lifetime's habit of thinking of him as Serena's Little Brother was hard to break. And part of the reason that Blair looked after him so furiously was because he seemed to inspire some alien familial instinct in Chuck.

Finally, the sight of a shifty-looking man materializing at the mouth of the alley caught Eric's eye. He couldn't have been more dodgy, had be been holding a sign bearing the phrase: FREE CANDY. A dispassionate side of Eric had to admit that he was handsome.

The man stopped a metre away from Eric.

"You Charlie?" he asked gruffly.

Eric felt a swoop of embarrassment at his appropriation of Chuck's name for this unseemly alleyway deal. But, he hadn't wanted to approach Chuck for the name of his dealer. He had wanted it to be this way: far from the UES, slightly distasteful. Eric had gotten the name, Dominic, from a guy at St Jude's.

Eric noticed that Dominic had a bandaged hand as he double-checked the two ends of the alley, as if checking to see whether Eric was drawing him into some kind of trap. Not for the first time, Eric wondered why he was doing this. He had always had a fairly casual relationship with drugs; they were everywhere. At the few parties he attended, it seemed as if no social engagement were complete without someone doing a line of coke. Eric had learned to swallow his shock and shrug with disaffected ease at the sight of the Captain of the lacrosse team filling his body with these impurities.

But, he had never before been drawn to these pharmaceuticals. Until the Dream had started, and he had watched everyone he loved burned to death. Until he had learned that his father walked the streets of New York without seeming to remember the family he had left behind.

For some reason, Eric felt safest in these situations. Although they crackled with tension – a drug possession charge was hardly going to win him a place at Harvard – he felt strangely comforted by the entire scene. Perhaps it was the surrealism of the feeling of standing in a grimy alley with a man who hadn't shaved. It was so far from the experience of being Eric Van Der Woodsen that he felt as if he were wearing protective gear. As if at any moment, the light would shift and he would see that he was standing on a movie set.

He felt safe because he revealed nothing of himself. Whether they came at him with subterfuge or knives or even drew a gun on him – none of the shady characters he had met with recently, who slowly but surely drained the money from his sizable bank account – he knew that they could never hurt him. Because in these moments, Eric wasn't himself.[4]

"Yeah. I'm Charlie."

Dominic was clearly losing interest in the scene, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager to complete their exchange and hurry back to his young family at home. "Are we doing this or what?"

"We're doing this," Eric said softly.

Relieved, Dominic accepted the crisp bills from Eric's wallet, briefly considering stealing the whole damn thing. But, he had learnt to gauge his clients well. This one would be back. More fruitful to accept the bills that would be paying for his family's Thanksgiving dinner and let the boy be. Having a client was better than having an enemy.

He reached into his chest pocket and threw the brown paper bag at Eric. Raising an eyebrow, Eric glanced in the flat bag and saw two magazines.

"What the hell is this?"

But, Dominic was already striding away for Eric's money. Furious with himself, Eric opened the bag to see one miscellaneous music magazine and a rather thick tome of pornography. Eric snorted when he saw that the porn wasn't even gay porn. Rolling his eyes at the way he'd been had, he opened _Jugs_.

It was then that he found six ecstasy pills sticky-taped to various parts of a woman's naked body – two pages from the central fold.

"Well played, Dominic," Eric muttered, before turning around and striding out into the public. Now he didn't even need to stop in at the newsagency for a cover-story. Not to mention the fact that anyone who looked in the bag would be too embarrassed to pursue the issue any further. Although, he might receive some odd looks from his family if they saw he had chosen _Jugs_.

He would just shrug. "I'm experimenting."

Eric almost laughed at the thought, waving at Rufus, who was now sitting at the drum. A woman pushing a pram smiled at Eric as he valiantly moved aside and allowed her to overtake him. Two police officers walked by him, taking in his blonde hair and his expensive overcoat.

"Happy Thanksgiving," the fatter man said.

"Same to you," he replied.

"Eric, you've gotta try this," Rufus crowed.

Eric shook his head, watching Rufus grinning to himself. As Eric stood, he pressed his package tightly to his chest and felt the steady thump-thump-thump of a heart becoming used to danger.

* * *

Dan was trying to get comfortable on his bed, reading through the stack of magazines and newspapers he had indulged in after his stroll to the local newsstand.

He had been in a state of what Chuck would call, Humphrey-itis. It was a rare condition that struck people with artistic pretensions when they started to feel misunderstood and underappreciated. Symptoms included heavy sighing, meaningful pauses, and the almost feminine response of "I'm _fine_" whenever someone made the mistake of asking if he were okay.

For that reason, when a confused backpacker standing in front of a hotdog stand asked Dan to point him in the direction of the Upper East Side, Dan had sighed with a melancholy air and gestured widely around them.

"You're in it. Didn't the stench of black souls and dry martinis give it away?"

"I'm, um, new to the area," the brown-haired guy stuttered, non-plussed.

"Don't worry about it. Manhattan humour. Without the humour."

With that, he had watched the poor sod walk down the street in the complete opposite direction then he should have. When Dan returned to his bedroom, he had thrown himself horizontal on the bed and listened to the sound of his own breathing for a while.

He knew that somewhere down the hall, Chuck and Blair were consummating their decision to move in together. For some reason, the thought didn't particularly bother him. It was a strange thing, this longing he had for Blair. The thought of arriving at a party with her was intoxicating, and yet the thought of sex never really entered the equation.

Not for the first time, he cursed Vanessa for putting this idea in his head. He had been very comfortable writing about Chuck and Blair subconsciously, but she had to draw his attention to the encoded meanings in the body of his work. A strange side effect was that it had completely ruined his writing; he couldn't quite seem to strike the write tone for Chuck.

Now, he couldn't make sense of what it was he was feeling.

Two nights ago, he had dreamed that he and Blair were sitting at either end of a long table. They seemed to be in the midst of an intense conversation.

"I won't lie about it," she said seriously.

I don't want you to lie, he'd tried to respond, but he couldn't even form the words. She picked up the pages of typed words that lay in front of her and pressed them to herself, as if using them as a shield.

"I won't lie," she repeated.

It was then that Chuck entered, eating a cheese sandwich (it was at that point that Dan should have known something was amiss).

"I hate lies," he said in a strange monotone. "That's what I hate the most."

At the sight of him, casually standing there with his boring sandwich, Blair allowed the pages to spill down to her lap, before walking slowly over to him, stopping just short of his embrace.

"I thought you hated ownership the most," she said softly.

You can own me if you like, Dan mouthed soundlessly.

"You can own me if you like," Chuck said, just as quietly, as if Dan had written the script and was working him like a ventriloquist dummy. "But you can't leave me."

Dan woke up just as Blair pulled Chuck into her embrace.

He had dreamed last night of sitting in the corner of a room as Blair slept on her bed. She woke up, suddenly, screaming. Dan had willed himself to move to her, but all he had succeeded in doing was leaning forward to view the scene more closely. It was then that Chuck entered, holding a glass of water (and a plate of cheese, for some reason).

"Shhh," he's whispered. "I'm here. You're safe."

"I dreamed that you disappeared," Blair said softly, gulping down the water until it ran down the side of her face.

"I'll disappear if you want me to," Chuck said in a slow voice.

With that, he faded away. Dan awoke still hearing Blair screaming and clawing at the space where Chuck had been, in the centre of his brain.

In each of these scenes, he was scarcely a player – he watched with a thrill of voyeurism as Chuck and Blair acted and re-enacted their love for each other. It had been these dreams that had inspired his comment earlier that day, when he and Blair were alone.

"_Blair, there is something I've been meaning to mention to you."_

"_What is it, Humphrey?"_

"_I, um. I suppose that I just wanted to say that even if - "_

Chuck's arrival had interrupted them and he hadn't had the chance to finish his sentence. What he had wanted to say was this:

"_Even if you left Chuck, you'd still be Blair Waldorf."_

He's wanted to say it, because it seemed true. Of course, the inevitable question she would ask was also simple to answer. If Blair were to leave him, Chuck would quite simply cease to be Chuck Bass.

Dan sighed to himself, trying to focus on the news that the Federal Reserve had extended $1.3 billion in loans to investors and the International Atomic Energy Agency's decision to censure Iran.[5]

Dan always made it a habit to start with the central sections of the newspaper and work his way outwards to the more sensationalist headlines. But, he soon found himself tiring of his broadsheet, turning instead to _The New Yorker _without much interest. As usual, the cover was dominated by a cartoon rendering of some old white guy. Barely paying attention, Dan flipped through the pages until he reached the central spread.

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck," Dan cursed.

Dan scampered down the hallway into the living room without tearing his eyes away from the article. The headline, 'BASS EMPIRE BUILT ON SAND' was particularly hard to look away from. The same could be said for the various pictures of the Bass family – Bart, Chuck, Lily, Serena, Eric, and even Jack at various functions, some recent (there was even a picture of Chuck and Blair stepping out of a Manhattan club) and some old. There were even a few pictures of Chuck and Nate lined up for their school photo – part of a broader portrait of privilege and ill-gotten wealth that Dr. Dwight (Dan had to admit) had captured with mastery.

With a sinking stomach, Dan scanned the epic piece: certainly the news of Bart Bass' involvement in an insurance scam in which a man had died was splashed across the magazine for all to see. The broad thrust of the narrative was that while the Bass family cavorted on the Upper East Side, enjoying their blood money; the worker toiled ceaselessly in the subsidiaries of Bass industries, unappreciated and expendable.

_This is an article about evil – and I don't feel that I am being hyperbolic by employing that phrase. The evil of money, evil ends, evil means, evil effects and causes. A number of evils jostle for our attention when it comes to a critical scrutiny of the Bass Empire. _

_It was not until attending a recent black tie benefit in the Bass name that it occurred to me what the most insidious aspect of this evil was. It was the sanctimoniousness of the Bass brand. They promote themselves to membership in a self-selecting elite who pat themselves on the back every time one per cent of their profits goes to promote world peace. _

_It is this snivelling sense of superiority that I seek to undo in these pages. And this author's humble opinion, every member of the Bass clan must stand to account not only for the wider evils perpetrated in America and abroad under the flag of Bass Inc., but also for the death of a single man whose family was bought and paid for – probably at a price far-surpassing the one per cent profits that never reach the small village in Hanoi.[6]_

And that was only the first column. It was bad. It was really, really bad.

"Humphrey," Blair called warmly. "Perhaps you'd like to get your head out of that magazine and get me some ice."

Dan all but jumped out of his skin at the sight of Blair and Chuck sitting at the kitchen counter, Blair holding an ice pack to Chuck's head as he scowled at Dan.

Forgetting about the _New Yorker_ for a moment, Dan grinned at Chuck. "What on earth happened?"

"I slipped in the shower," Chuck grumbled.

"Well, technically, the shower head flew off the wall and smacked him in the back of head," Blair said matter-of-factly. "And then he fell over."

"It was a confluence of events that couldn't have been foreseen by anyone," Chuck muttered.

Dan couldn't help but chuckle. "Those are some righteous reflexes, Chuck."

"I was distracted at the time," he said, casting a sidelong look at Blair.

Dan felt another wave of laughter overtaking him. "Wait, wait. You fell over…while having sex in the shower?"

"Yes, Humphrey," Chuck grumbled. "After hours of very successful and _not_ lame sex, I had a slight mishap."

"And it didn't help that there was soap to step on."

Chuck glared at Blair. "That is _not _helping."

"Think of it this way," Dan said, popping a grape into his mouth. "It could have been worse. You could have slipped on a banana peel."

Blair was biting back a smile as she gestured at Dan. "You – freezer – ice."

Without thinking, Dan left the magazine on the counter and hurried over to the freezer. He was seriously considering calling Vanessa and telling her that she was insane – giddy at the ease with which he interacted with a clearly post-coital Chuck and Blair. The thought of Vanessa was accompanied by the now familiar stab of guilt. His (former) best friend, who he hadn't even called on Thanksgiving. The friendship that had once been so precious to him was slipping out of his grasp and he hated it.

"Humphrey," Blair said suddenly, picking up the magazine. "What the hell is this?

"Wait, what? That? That's nothing. You should just give that to me…"

But it was too late. As one, Blair and Chuck scanned the first page. At various intervals, Blair's eyes flicked towards Chuck, trying to read his expression. From where Dan was sitting, it seemed utterly blank.

It was at that moment, that the elevator _ding-_ed to announce a new arrival.

"Don't worry," Serena called gaily. "I'm here. The festivities can start. The fun can begin. God, it's _freezing _out there. I think my eyelashes nearly froze together. Not to mention the fact that everyone is _crazy _on Thanksgiving. And I mean barking at the moon crazy. It's like - " she finally paused at the sight of the frozen nativity scene in the kitchen. Blair, Chuck and Dan, standing absolutely still and gazing with wrapt attention at the magazine in front of them. "What are you reading? Is Princess Mary pregnant again?"

She hiked herself onto the counter so she could read over Dan's shoulder. With her spare hand she fiddled with one of Blair's curls.

"Oh," she said eventually. "_Oh._"

"I'm going to _kill_ this guy," Blair said furiously. "I am going to kill him until he is, quite simply, dead."

"He's breaching about a million ethical rules. Just quietly. I mean, he was our teacher, right? I don't know what the _New Yorker_ is doing publishing this tripe."

"Well," Serena said playfully. "The _did_ publish one of your stories so obviously their standards are getting pretty low…"

"Oh thank you for that, Serena," Dan said with a faux pained expression. "The holiday cheer is strong in this one."

"It's just so hypocritical," Blair continued raging, still pressing the ice-pack against Chuck's head, her arm around his neck. "Where does he get off passing himself off as this high and mighty moral authority when he does this to one of his students?"

Still, Chuck said nothing.

"When's Nate getting here?" Dan asked Serena. "What we need is to form a posse. Really take it to Dwight."

"He'll be here in about twenty minutes," Serena said. "And I don't know about forming a posse. I spent a lot time tying myself to trees at Brown to protest that sort of violent response."

Without saying a word, Blair placed the ice pack gently on the counter and kissed the icy cold patch on Chuck's forehead. Smoothing his hair where it was wet from the melted ice, Blair cast Serena and Dan a worried look.

Suddenly, Chuck let out a snort of laughter.

"Chuck Bass, the dilettante nephew-cum-son of Bart Bass is best known for his trail of drug convictions and his dubious business investments," he read aloud before throwing the magazine back onto the counter. "Can anyone say, 'overwritten'?"

"Totally overwritten," Dan agreed.

"I don't know," Serena said thoughtfully. "It makes you sound kind of…"

"Bad ass?" Dan contributed.

"Kind of bad ass," Serena confirmed.

Without showing much interest, Chuck threw the magazine back down on the counter. "So, Lady Humps," Chuck said to Dan. "Don't I owe you a pawning in Wii?"

"Um, sure," Dan said uncertainly, casting a glance at Blair. "Are you sure you don't want to…I don't know…"

"Cry like a little girl?" Chuck asked with an eye-roll.

"I was going to say 'process', but crying like a little girl works too."

"What for?" Chuck said lightly, before leading the way to the television.

Serena shrugged at Blair, wrapping her arm around her shorter friend's shoulders and leaning close to her ear. "Don't think you're getting out of telling me all about this moving-in together business. We need some serious Girl Talk."

With that, Serena dragged Blair down the hall towards her bedroom, not noticing the way Blair looked back at the wretched article that Chuck had reacted so calmly to. Perhaps he honestly didn't care. Perhaps he had severed the ties of family more surely than she had guessed. But, even as he traded jibes with Dan, and as Serena grabbed her hands, in that showy intimacy of young women, she doubted his casual attitude. A born liar herself, she doubted every glib inch of him.

She doubted him, and her skin flared with heat at the point on her hip where he had inscribed his name.

* * *

[1] Based on Claire Messud's _The Emperor's Children_.

[2] Based on T.S. Eliot, _The Burial of the Dead._

[3] Parts of this section based on _Written on the Body_ by Jeanette Winterson.

[4] Adapted from _The English Patient _by Michael Ondaatje

[5] All from newspapers on the actual date! Life and fanfic collide!

[6] Loosely modelled on PJ O'Rourke, _Give War A Chance._

A/N: I thought I should stop there, although I had planned on continuing for a while yet. But, Written on the Body, Part II will contain a few surprises so I thought I would hold off to make sure people are still reading. Also, see if you can recognise the unattributed Buffy reference!


	11. Chapter 11: Written on the Body, Part II

AN: I am so sorry for the delay! I'm in the process of moving inter-state and haven't really been watching _Gossip Girl_. But, your reviews inspired me to continue. I tried to mix the heavy and the light in this chapter. Hope you enjoy. Next phase of the story will be fairly plot-driven. This is the end of the beginning, you could say. Enjoy!

_Lightness and Weight_

Sequel to _The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair_

**Chapter Eleven:**** Written on the Body, Part II**

"In the centre of the paper, very small, in black ink, I draw a heart, not a silly Valentine but an anatomically correct heart, tiny, doll-like, and then veins, delicate road maps of veins, that reach all the way to the edges of the paper, that hold the small heart enmeshed like a fly in a spiderweb. _See, there's his heartbeat._"

_The Time Traveler's Wife_ (Audrey Niffenegger)

* * *

**Dr. Alsace Dwight, "BASS EMPIRE BUILT ON SAND" **_**The New Yorker**_**:**

"…_It would come to be the defining image of the Bass Epoch _(PHOTO: LEFT, INSET)_ – destined to be reproduced in the pages of books and in glossy magazines. Bart Bass sits in his jet, a phone in his hand and his eyes narrowed as he looks into the light streaming through the window at cruising altitude. With one leg crossed over the other, wearing a suit, with a dark, obscuring shadow on the lower planes of his face, Bart Bass soars above the concerns of the average man. His PR representative was the one who sent the picture to _The New York Times. _What is striking about the photograph is not the fact that it captures for posterity the gravitas, the loneliness, and the clarity of the visionary, but rather because it compels the viewer to ask the question: what heavy things does this man carry on his shoulders? _

_In New York, 39,000 feet below, a building is on fire. _

_It happened with the Swiss watch precision that Bart Bass brought to all his questionable endeavours. As the Bass Jet coasted onto the runway at Usage Airport, the two men that Bart Bass had retained to lay waste to an unprofitable business investment started a flame from within the central electrical grid of the building. There would be no hint of arson, no sign of intrusion, and within hours both men would disappear from the city. _

_If one assumes that Bart had no way of knowing that one of his employees had, only minutes earlier, entered the building to retrieve a helium tank for his daughter's birthday, then it is difficult to know what causes that peculiar crease about Bart's eyebrow in that quintessential photograph. _

_What has been cut out of the picture is the young man that sat only two seats away from Bart, watching him covertly, with that particular blend of haughty vulnerability that characterised his mother. Charles "Chuck" Bass _(PHOTO: RIGHT, WITH NATHANIEL ARCHIBALD, SON OF ACCUSED EMBEZZLER, HOWARD "THE CAPTAIN" ARCHIBALD)_, unaware that he is the product of a tryst with another Bass man, wondering, as we do, whether there is a human skull under the cool face of Bartholomew Bass._

_After the quiet exchange of accidental injury damages, I hear that Bart Bass gave a commanding eulogy at Steven Penderghast's funeral, praising the fatherly devotion that had seen the contractor within the premises on a weekend. On the way to the funeral, Bart learned that Chuck had been arrested for indecent exposure. Bart dispatched an aid."_

* * *

**TWO YEARS EARLIER:**

There were times when Bart and Chuck would sit with each other at a bar, and Bart would shrug off the distance between them so that they could share a laugh and enjoy the sight of an attractive woman. The Cold War between them would thaw for a moment, as it sometimes does between two great friends who have found themselves recently and irrevocably alienated. It is difficult to unlearn the muscle memory of a friendship, and sometimes a smile will just emerge in spite of your anger. Of course, Bart Bass had a unique capacity for grudges, and soon enough those moments would pass.

And so it had passed, this Thanksgiving, which had held so much potential for some rare father-and-son bonding. But even more than that, it offered the perfect excuse to set a course for a far-off place, where thoughts of Blair Waldorf and what was almost within his grasp were far away.

It was strange, this feeling in his stomach. But, he was still Chuck Bass, and for Chuck Bass, the only thing that could cure feelings was distance. Even though he had told Blair about those butterflies in his stomach, there had been a queer sense of relief with each climbing foot of the jet. Bart had been in a jovial mood, actually offering him a glass of scotch and laughing at Chuck's comments about the airline staff.

It was almost possible to forget the text message that he had sent Blair before take-off: _Getting on plane. Happy Thanksgiving for tomorrow. Say hi to Harold for me. C_.

The moment he had pressed send, he had felt the irresistible urge to try to catch the message as it flew into the atmosphere. _Say hi to Harold for me._ Really? He wasn't auditioning for the role of her BFF. Next he'd start wearing a headband.

And then there was the anxiety that came with the total lack of response. Waiting to board the jet, Chuck found himself fiddling with his phone and staring at the screen in spite of himself.

"Are you worried that someone listed you on the Interpol Watch-list?" Bart enquired, his business with his assistant completed. "You've been brooding for half an hour."

"Woman troubles," Chuck muttered darkly, as they climbed the stairs.

Bart stopped sharply, almost causing Chuck to plough right into him. "Did you impregnate someone?" he asked seriously.

"No," Chuck responded sharply, pushing passed Bart into the plane. "Just waiting for a text."

The feeling of Bart's hand resting on his shoulder was unfamiliar and shocking. There, on the tarmac, Chuck turned around to find Bart Bass staring at him incredulously, his grip almost painful.

"Do you mean to tell me that you're actually _waiting_ for a girl to text you?"

"I'm not waiting," Chuck replied, too quickly. "She texts, she texts. Like I care."

It sounded flimsy to his own ears, and judging by the nascent smile on Bart's face, it had been just as weak to his audience. Removing his hand and continuing their ascent, Bart's face returned once more to its resting position: utterly inscrutable.

"She texts, she texts," Bart confirmed, before passing by Chuck – once more taking his place in the lead. It was such a little thing, and Chuck doubted that Bart even noticed, but one thing that he had learned about his father over the years was that the man would never accept a position behind another person.

Chuck sat opposite his father, wondering at the brief flicker of interest that Bart had shown. It could have been his imagination, but it certainly seemed that Bart had been approving of his pussy-whipped behaviour. Of course, the moment had quickly passed, and now, Bart was barking at an assistant over the telephone that was built into his usual seat.

As the pilot began warming up the engine, Chuck's phone beeped extremely audibly.

_I was thinking of you. Happy Thanksgiving. Bxo_.[1]

Chuck's stomach dropped slightly, before lodging somewhere in his throat. He had heard a lot of things come out of a woman's mouth (he had also seen a lot of things going into a woman's mouth, he thought, smirking). He had paid prostitutes to say any number of scandalous things to him as he gained his pleasure from the feeling of flesh that had been brought and paid for. But never before had he heard an organisation of words as captivating and sexy as those: _I was thinking of you_.

When he glanced up, he saw to his surprise that Bart had interrupted his phone call – had the handset pressed to his shoulder – and had raised his eyebrows. "Well?"

Chuck could not remember a time when Bart had interrupted a phone call for him. Shrugging nonchalantly, he offered Bart a half-smile. "She texted."

"Excellent," Bart responded, as if one of his aides had passed him a quarterly report boasting record growth. With that, he returned to his phone call. But, not before asking one of the stewards to bring them both a drink.

It was probably the best flight he and his father had ever had. And, somewhere in the back of his mind, Chuck knew it was because he had somehow managed – even in a small way – to show his father that sometimes he was capable of feelings other than drunkenness. It perplexed him. Bart had never been someone who placed great stock in emotions. But, there was something about Thanksgiving that brought out a different side of him – whether good or bad. Looking back, it was probably that flight that inspired him to work so hard in the weeks leading up to Bart and Lily's wedding – trying with all his might to create some reasonable facsimile of family.

But, soon enough, the plane landed, and Bart hurried off to speak to lawyers and hotel managers. It had taken a few hours in his hotel room, before Chuck had gathered together the bravery to knock on Bart's door to ask whether he would be interested in dining together that night.

"Enter," Bart said flatly.

Cracking open the door, affecting a nonchalant manner and his signature smirk, Chuck entered. There was something in Bart's tone that should have warned him that the tides had once more shifted. But, he never learned. Not really.

Entering the room, Chuck noticed that the blinds had been drawn, that Bart's top button was undone, and before him there was a bottle of scotch and a near-empty glass. He was sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, and various dossiers and reports spread out on the low table before him.

None of his friends or schoolmates would have known what to make of Chuck at this moment: standing awkwardly before his father as if in the principal's office. Through the gloom, Chuck noticed that Bart's wrists were shaking slightly. The ice in his glass was rattling.

"What do you want Chuck?"

Chuck felt a swoop of panic. The idea of suggesting sharing a meal seemed infantile and ridiculous.

"What are you working on?" Chuck asked, deciding that the best offence was a good defence.

"Are you angling for an internship?" Bart asked tiredly, fiddling with his top button, before realizing that the shirt was already loosened. He placed the cold glass on the corner of the dossier before him, not seeming to care that he had created a wet ring on the paper. It was turning clear before both their eyes.

"What better way to learn?" Chuck commented. He wasn't certain whether or not he should sit down. Something told him that sitting would be a bad idea. Trying to act casual, he leaned on the arm of the nearest armchair.

Bart did not respond to that. Looking at Chuck, his face utterly devoid of expression, he leaned back in the seat. He must have become aware of his slight tremors; he let one arm lie across the back of the sofa, hiding any sign of physical infirmity from Chuck's prying eyes.

"I'm deciding whether or not Bass Inc. should get into the arms dealing business."

Chuck sifted through the possible responses he could have to this proclamation. He knew that it never paid so have a weak stomach when playing with the big boys. By the same token, Bart occasionally posed these hypothetical scenarios in order to perform some moral fibre litmus test, which usually led him to conclude that Chuck was lacking on various philosophical grounds.

"That would be new terrain for Bass," he said carefully. "What's your thinking?"

But Bart wasn't going to let him off quite so easily. "Don't you have any immediate moral response to the suggestion that our family name should be associated with the arms trade?"

"I think that the arms trade doesn't necessarily imply the illegal arms trade," Chuck responded.

"So as long as we keep on the right side of the law," Bart said. "You think we can do what we want."

"That's right."

"You having such a positive relationship with law enforcement."

"I make friends wherever I go," he said seriously.

Bart let out a bark of laughter that felt like a cool blast of air to Chuck's face. "Corruption is everywhere in business. When I bribe a dock-keeper to allow me to pack in more crates of goods than is strictly allowed under customs regulations, I am helping to finance the same people who allow drugs to be trafficked around the globe. The same drugs that probably end up in your blood stream." Bart paused. "Do you think that bribery is a reasonable tool to use in business?"

"Sometimes the ends justify the means," Chuck said, wishing that he had just gone down to the bar by himself. This strange mood of Bart's was not exactly conducive to father-son bonding. And, if he were totally honest with himself, Bart scared him sometimes, with those icy blue eyes that could pierce the soul.

"The question then becomes whether you can recognise the proper ends. Can you, Chuck? Do you know what outcome you want? Do you know what lines you would cross in order to get it? What would you do to get what you want?"

He knew it wasn't what Bart had meant, but the image of Blair and Nate came into his mind. Bart no doubt would have rolled his eyes at the comparison – here he was talking about morality and justice, and Chuck was thinking about his own little love triangle.

"I'm closing this hotel," Bart said finally, sparing Chuck from answering. "I'm firing the staff tomorrow morning."

"Then I guess they won't be giving us the complimentary gift baskets I was so looking forward to," Chuck said, expressing more bravado than he felt.

"Don't worry," Bart said flatly. "I'm sure that you will have time to bed a couple of the hotel staff before we go."

"But I - " Chuck started, wanting to remind his father that only hours earlier, he had been smiling to himself about Chuck staring at his mobile and praying for a measly text message. But, it seemed clear for now that the conversation was over. "I guess I'm going to have to get a move on then. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Bart responded without looking up.

But, Chuck did not go to the bar. He didn't go downstairs and try to bed any of the soon to be unemployed wait-staff. Instead, he stood at the window of room and looked at the moon. Bart Bass was going to become an arm's dealer. Of course he was. He'd probably accept payment in blood diamonds as well. And Chuck would use the money to buy some top-notch cocaine.

For the first time he could remember, Chuck felt the strange desire to feel…clean. No. That wasn't quite right. It was purity that he wanted to feel. He wanted to turn his face to the warmth of another person's hand. He went to bed dreaming of creamy white slips.

_I was thinking of you._

The next day, before Bart had even had the chance to shatter the lives of his employees, Chuck found himself packing his suitcase and booking a commercial flight. By the time he arrived back in New York, it was night time and the streets were quiet as well-fed locals slumbered.

He went in through the back way: the fire escape that was only accessible if you knew (and had bribed) the night doorman. As always, he left the key at the back door to the apartment, knowing that Jimmy would be hurrying up to collect it, praying to God that this rich little upstart didn't piss off the tenants to the extent that Jimmy was fired for allowing him access.

Without waking a soul, Chuck made his way upstairs, marvelling at the way the moon lit the hallway and seemed to light a path to Blair's door. He knocked lightly on the door, aware that he would have ranked fairly high on the Creepy Stalker-o-meter if he had just let himself into her room.

She had probably been expecting Dorota, or her mother, but when her eyes fell on Chuck, she offered him a small smile and she leaned on the doorframe. For a moment, they stood silently, regarding each other. Chuck was still wearing the clothes he had worn for the flight, and Blair was wearing a white nightdress.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, as if she had expected it all along.

"I was thinking of you," Chuck responded softly.

Various emotions chased their way across her face, but before he could make sense of any of them, she pulled him in for a kiss. As he stood in the hallway, she was already tearing at his shirt. Idly, he made a mental note to bring a spare one next time.

For a moment, Blair pulled back to regard him in the moonlight. "I was having the worst day," Blair said softly.

"Let's see if we can salvage it."

As he stepped over the threshold between the hallway and Blair's bedroom, he remembered what Bart had asked him. _Do you know what outcome you want? Do you know what lines you would cross in order to get it? What would you do to get what you want?_ While he still couldn't quite articulate the answer to the first question, he knew the answer to the second.

Anything. He would do anything.

* * *

**TWO YEARS LATER:**

"The horses tugged hard, each pulling straight on a limb, each horse held by an executioner," Serena intoned, lying flat on her stomach on Chuck's bed as Blair examined herself in his mirror. "After a quarter of an hour, the same ceremony was repeated and finally, after several attempts, the direction of the horses had to be changed." Serena paused, allowing the thick black Penguin book to fall against her chest. "My god, B. How can you read this? It's so gross."

"It's Foucault," Blair shrugged, appraising herself from the side and taking in the line of her leg in the shoes Chuck had brought her a week earlier. It had been a birthday present – along with another stunning necklace with two diamond butterflies in the very centre. "It's about torture and punishment."

Serena raised an eyebrow, allowing the book to fall on the surface of the doona. "And let me guess, you and Chuck use it for inspiration for some kinky sex thing?"

"We do not lack inspiration," Chuck commented, appearing at the door of his room, leaning against the frame and admiring the sight of Blair wearing her new shoes. "But I draw the line at drawing and quartering."

"And I draw the line a pretty long way before that," Blair commented as Chuck wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her on each shoulder.

"God," Serena groaned. "Must you paw at my best friend all the time? We're _trying_ to have girl talk."

"You've been talking for an hour," Chuck commented, staring at Serena over Blair's shoulder in the mirror. "Besides, I assumed seeing you're lying right on the spot where just this morning we were…"

"Oh my god," Serena screamed before commando rolling off the bed. "I can't believe I lay on your bed."

He smirked at her, as she sat rubbing furiously at her dress, before lifting a necklace from the nearby dresser and fastening it around Blair's neck. "Perfect," he breathed. He glanced at Serena, with a bored expression on his face. "Nathaniel has arrived. I'm not sure whether you care."

Picking the lint off her skirt as she climbed to her feet, Serena shot him a dirty look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Chuck seemed preoccupied by the image of himself and Blair reflected in the expanse of glass. Nonetheless, he managed to offer Serena a smirk. "It's just so hard to keep track. The two of you are more on-again, off-again than Carmen Electra's panties."

"That's so crass," Blair complained, before extricating herself from his arms in protest.

Not particularly concerned, Chuck shrugged. "It's true." Then, without warning, he turned to Serena. "If you want to be with Nate, you need to decide and do something about it."

"Why do I have to be the one to do something about it?" Serena pouted.

"Because, believe it or not, you are less likely to get distracted by something shiny before getting to the point. Either way, you and Nathaniel have a past. You can't run away from the past."

"Says Chuck Bass," Serena said, rolling her eyes, and straightening her dress.

"Exactly," Chuck said. "I know a thing or two about ghosts."

"Just like Ebenezer Scrooge," Blair added solemnly.

Chuck's lips quirked, and he turned around to offer Blair a retort. But, when his eyes fell on her - standing there in her new necklace – he found that he couldn't summon the energy to spar with her. Even when he opened his mouth to offer a witty retort, nothing came out. Instead, he smiled.

Taking a step towards her, he wrapped his arms around her waist. "I was thinking about Thanksgiving...two years ago."

Blair ran her hands over his forearms, before setting them on her shoulders. "I thought for sure that when you got back you'd ignore me or something. S and I fought about you and Daddy didn't come," she mused, not noticing the way Serena winced at the mention of her name. "When you knocked on my door," she smiled. "I half-thought I dreamed you. But you came back."

Chuck pressed his forehead against hers and whispered. "Somewhere on the other side of the wide night, and the distance between us, I am thinking of you."[2]

"Carol Ann Duffy," Blair smiled. She remembered, suddenly, how before she had agreed to move in with him, she had noticed that his copy of _I, Claudius_ had been marked at page 160. She was almost too eager when she asked, "You're reading her?"

Chuck pulled back to look at her, taking in her whole face before cupping it in his hands. "The room is turning slowly away from the moon. This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say it is sad? In one of those tenses, I singing an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear." He leant in close, nearly kissing her. "La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross to reach you. For I am in love with you. And this is what it is like."

"Or," Blair interrupted, her eyes almost closed. "This is what it is like in words."

Hypnotised by his deep eyes, Blair leant in to kiss him with the pressure of a butterflies wings, only to notice that a very awkward Serena was scratching her elbow and avoiding gaping at them. Grinning sheepishly, Blair pulled away from a very put-out Chuck. "Sorry, S."

"No, no," Serena said in a flustered rush. "You guys should keep…exchanging meaningful glances and reciting poetry. I'll just keep standing here, trying to bore my way through the ground."

"Or," a new voice interrupted. "You could all come out here and tell Dan and Vanessa that we're not watching _Fargo_ on Thanksgiving."

"Vanessa's here?" Serena asked.

"We were working on the movie last week," Blair said simply. "I asked Lily if we could have her for lunch."

"Delicious," Nate said. When the three of them gave him a non-plussed look, he blushed. "Because it sort of sounded like we were going to eat Vanessa. For lunch."

"He's a keeper," he said in a loud stage whisper, patting Serena on the back. Blair rolled her eyes and led Chuck by the hand towards the doorway.

"What?" Nate asked Chuck and Blair walked passed him.

"Don't worry about it Nate," Blair said condescendingly.

"What does that mean?_"_ he said more emphatically, looking at Serena.

"Don't worry about it Nate," she sighed.

"I won't," Nate said, straightening his back. "Because it's a good thing. You're all keeping me. That's good," he repeated, reassuring himself.

"Sure it is," Serena said fondly, before offering him her arm and walking towards the living room.

* * *

In the living room, things had quickly turned arctic between Vanessa and Dan. For the first few minutes, with a Nate-shaped buffer, they had chatted passed each other, addressing their comments to the wall behind each other's heads. Eventually, though, Nate excused himself, and they found themselves entirely alone.

It was an unusual experience, being alone with someone he had once known like the sight of his own face in the mirror, and finding himself completely estranged from her. He wished that someone had warned him that she was coming. Of course, no one would have thought that they had to.

"I was going to call you," Dan said, eventually.

Vanessa, who had been whistling tunelessly, let her lips fall into a straight line. "You were," she said, as if it were a statement rather than a question.

"For Thanksgiving, and the like."

"You were going to call me for Thanksgiving," Vanessa repeated.

"See," Dan said, "I know it sounds like you're agreeing with me, but your tone suggests that you are not."

Vanessa shrugged. "I just find it hard to believe that you were going to call me. Precedent suggests that you only call me if you want me to read something you've written or ask me whether or not you can put Cedric in the washing machine."

Dan chuckled slightly, before a silence fell over the pair. He pondered his words, and a part of him felt like she was being unfair. Sure, things had been awkward between them – between Vanessa throwing him for a loop with her observations about Chuck and Blair, and Dan's own lingering question mark over the issue of whether they had gone back to being purely friends. But, for the most part, he knew that she was right. He rarely asked what was happening in her life. He had been neglecting her and she had been resenting him – and he hated it.

"I don't like how things are between us," Dan said sadly. "All this…stuff between us. I wish I knew how to fix it."

Vanessa's eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere near the dust ruffle of Lily's armchair. "I don't like it either." Dan smiled slightly at that, reaching out as if to touch her, until she pulled back. "But, what I really, really need right now is a friend. I'd like my best friend back. If he's in there somewhere."

Dan felt a strange pang at her words. "I'm still me, Vanessa. Nothing's changed."

"Nothing's _changed_?" Vanessa laughed hollowly, before gesturing around her. "You are living on the Upper East Side. Your ex-girlfriend is soon going to be your step-sister. You're at Yale. Things have changed for you Dan."

"That doesn't change anything between - "

"And things have changed for me, too," Vanessa interrupted, still avoiding his eyes. "Whenever we hang out it seems like we spend the whole time talking about Chuck and Blair – about you and your writing. And I love that, don't get me wrong. But, there's some stuff I need to talk about and I just don't have anyone to talk _to_. Ruby's off touring with her band. Blair and Chuck are too involved with each other to notice anything else. But, you're meant to be my person, Dan. No matter what else has happened between us, you're _meant_ to be my best friend."

Dan sat very still, shell-shocked by the frustration in her voice. He never seemed to get it right with the women in his life. Serena he had chased away by always trying to frame her in a way that suited him, rather than seeing her for what she was. With Vanessa, he assumed he knew everything there was to know. He didn't look closely enough.

"I'm sorry," Dan said softly.

"Thank you."

There was a pause, as Vanessa leaned on the arm of a chair and Dan faced her.

"Not to, you know, rush things," Dan said, carefully. "But I'm…here…right now. I'm here; you're here. Maybe we could…talk about some of those things you don't have anyone to talk about…with."

"Wow," Vanessa said, grinning. "That was the least articulate thing you have ever said."

He smiled sheepishly. "It really was, wasn't it?" He paused. "But the offer's open."

For a moment, Vanessa sat on the chair, thinking deeply. She had just opened her mouth to speak when –

"I brought allies," Nate shouted, jumping through the doorway. "I brought allies who understand that Thanksgiving is not a day for learning. It is a day for musical numbers and _getting our drink on."_

Vanessa laughed slightly, as Dan frowned at the interruption. "I just don't understand it," she joked. "You didn't grow up in Detroit."

"I'm all hood," Nate said. "And I'm putting in _High School Musical."_

Chuck groaned. "I've watched that a million times."

Everyone gaped at him for a moment.

"_You've _watched _High School Musical _a million times?" Vanessa asked.

"With Eric," Chuck said defensively. "Serena watched it too."

"Serena's a girl," Dan commented.

"He also knows the dances," Blair commented, before adopting a jaunty pose. "Go, Wildcats!"

"You are a faithless wench," Chuck said accusingly. "And it's not true."[3]

"It's true," Nate confirmed. "He taught me the moves to 'Get your head in the game.'"

"I have a natural rhythm," Chuck said, raising his hands in defeat. "Sometimes when I see a dance, I just naturally take it in. It's a gift."

"He's being snooty about knowing the dances, now," Vanessa observed in an undertone to Dan.

"Please," Dan snorted. "Anyone could learn the dances. The real challenge is singing."At the sight of their bemused expressions, Dan's eyes widened. "I mean, I know because Jenny's obsessed with them."

"Uh-huh," Nate grinned. "Jenny."

"Wait just a second here," Chuck said, raising an arm to command their attention. "I thought we were trying to figure what to do to entertain ourselves. Because if we can't come up with anything out here, Blair and I may just excuse ourselves to my bedroom..."

"So you can get hit in the head in the shower again?" Dan asked innocently.

Chuck raised an eyebrow and smirked. "No, Humphrey. So I can - "

"I think it's best you don't finish that sentence," Blair interrupted. "Besides. I think I have the perfect idea of how we can entertain ourselves before lunch time." She paused for a moment, casting a glance at Chuck who was still smirking at Dan. "Which is, incidentally, also the time we tell my mother about our living in sin together."

Chuck's face fell as Dan's lit up.

"What did you have in mind?"

* * *

Eric could hear the dull thrum of his family and friends down the hall as he sat in his room staring at the package he had procured from Dominic a few hours earlier.

For some reason, when he had arrived home, he had found Chuck, Nate and Dan performing scenes from all three _High School Musical _films. At the end of each performance, Vanessa, Serena and Blair would award them scores.

"It's the first annual, High School Music-off," Nate had said proudly.

"Another wordplay gem from the half-man, half-Labrador," Chuck murmured. It was only then that Chuck noticed the brown bag in Eric's arms. "What's that you've got there?"

"Don't get distracted," Blair snapped, clearly taking the game too seriously. "You're trailing behind Nate by two points. Do you want to lose to _Nate?_"

Nate rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Blair. You're really living up to the spirit of the game – and Thanksgiving in general."

"Shut up or I'll just deduct ten points," Blair snapped, scribbling furiously on the whiteboard she had procured.

"I don't see why we need the scoreboard," Nate grumbled. "You always give Chuck higher points."

"Are you accusing me of nepotism?"

At that point, Eric had been able to make a quick get away while Chuck physically restrained his girlfriend from tackling Nate.

It was quiet in here, at least. Eric had become someone who needed the quiet. But sometimes, he imagined that the quietness had taken up residence inside of him: enfolded him in its swampy arms, rocking him to the rhythm of its unintelligible heartbeat. It stayed with him in the busy streets of New York, and it spread within him even when stood amongst his peers. He would find himself in attendance at a party, and someone would speak to him – but no words would come. The silence had robbed him of his words – had dislodged the old sentences that used to come so easily and had whisked them away from the tip of his tongue. So, he offered the well-meaning person a smirk – _a la _Chuck Bass – before walking away.[4]

It was only when he was alone that he felt a cold finger of fear down the plane of his back; perhaps one day the words would not come back.

It was always this way. He would sit for almost an hour, grappling with questions that were vague and threatening, yet ultimately inconsequential. Perhaps this time he would walk away from the fine slither of darkness he held in his hand. But, really, he knew the answer to the question before he could even articulate it.

The faint sound of laughter travelled all the way to his door, but somewhere between the hallway and Eric's ears, it thinned, until it was almost too fragile for his ears to make sense of it. He could still make out the melody of Blair's laughter, as if it were played on the strings of a guitar.

And if Blair were laughing, Chuck would be close by. Perhaps it was some scandalous comment he had made that had caused this song to burst from her. Or, perhaps, she was laughing at something less personal. Whenever she laughed, Chuck would stare at her intensely, as if memorising a distinct melody.

This note: this is humour. That note: it is love.

It seemed that for the moment, he was not missed.

Opening his edition of _Jugs_, screwing up his nose at the sight of the women with outlandishly large boobs, Eric carefully lifted the tape that fastened one of his pills on the left nipple of the red-headed woman. There, scrawled in the top right corner of the page, Dominic had scrawled "_Enjoy_."

Eric had to resist his impulse to frown at that. He had never entirely approved of the act of defacing a book – although, perhaps calling a dirty magazine a 'book' was a little too generous. Eric had always viewed books as artefacts: as something sacred that shouldn't be bent or dog-earred or highlighted ("I'm _serious_, Serena. You _ruined_ it."). He had always viewed it as insulting to the author to write something on the title page, even if it was something as innocuous as "Happy Birthday" or the "Eric Van Der Woodsen."

Until, of course, he had gone into Chuck's room to borrow his copy of _The English Patient_, only to find that someone else had beaten him to it. There, on two blank pages, in Blair's perfect handwriting, was a letter:

"_My Darling,_

_Do not imagine, because you find these lines in your private book, that I have been trespassing. You know I have not – and where else shall I leave a love letter? For I long to write you a love letter tonight. You are all about me – I seem to breathe you – hear you – feel you in me and of me. _

_Last night, there was a moment before you got into bed. You stood, quite naked, bending forward a little – talking. It was only for an instant. I saw you – I loved you so__ loved your body with such tenderness — Ah my dear — And I am not thinking now of "passion". No, of that other thing that makes me feel that every inch of you is so precious to me. Your soft shoulders — your creamy warm skin, your ears, cold like shells are cold — your long legs and your feet that I love to clasp with my feet — the feeling of your belly — & your thin young back — Just below that bone that sticks out at the back of your neck you have a little mole. It is partly because we are young that I feel this tenderness — I love your youth — I could not bear that it should be touched even by a cold wind if I were the Lord._

_We two, you know, have everything before us, and we shall do very great things — I have perfect faith in us — and so perfect is my love for you that I am, as it were, still, silent to my very soul. I want nobody but you for my lover and my friend and to nobody but you shall I be faithful._

_Love, Blair"_

Underneath, in Chuck's scrawl was a notation: "Katherine Mansfield to John Middleton Murry, 1917."

Curious, Eric reached for another book – _I, Claudius._ Once more, Blair's handwriting:

"_And now listen to me in turn. You have touched me more profoundly than I thought even you could have touched me - my heart was full when you came here today. Henceforward I am yours for everything..._

_Love, Blair."_

And once more, Chuck's notation: Elizabeth Barrett Browning to Robert Browning.

It seemed to be a game for them: to insert themselves into every great love story they could get their hands on and then to offer those mighty sentiments to each other in the silence of the pages of a book.

And for the first time, Eric felt a bitter stab of jealousy at the thought of Chuck and Blair and their towering sense of entitlement when it came to romance. Eric found himself furious at them for the way they managed to inhabit this secret world; how each day could be ordinary and dull – lit by the florescence of the modern day – and somehow, they managed to live their lives as if they were characters in a book.

Eric had fallen asleep agitated, feeling as if his sheets were choking him. And once more the Dream filled his sleeping mind. Innisfree had been engulfed with flames, but this time, the black jealousy he had experienced at the sight of Blair's love letters added a layer of cruelty to the disturbing image. It was certainly Blair, this time: on fire, running for the doors to the balcony. Only this time, it was not Eric who stood there, mutely watching as the house burnt down. This time, it was Chuck who watched, helpless, as Blair's body in flames broke through the glass.

He had awoken as if he had been bursting out from underwater, slick with sweat and sick to his stomach.

What kind of person was he, if his subconscious would be filled with something like that?

From deep inside his mind, Eric heard the irrefutable answer: the sort of person whose father doesn't want to meet him.

Shaking himself from his reverie, Eric pressed the pill to his tongue, before swallowing it whole, without a sip of water.

Another strain of laughter reached him and he thought he heard his name being uttered. Running his hands through his short blonde hair, Eric glanced at himself in the mirror, marvelling at the fact that no one had commented on his red eyes, or the dark, bruise-like rings that bordered them.

"I'm going to go get him," he heard Serena saying, before the uneven patter of her footsteps told him she was galloping towards his door. "Eric! You're missing Nate's solo," she cried as she opened the door to find her brother standing in front of the mirror. "He's not wearing a shirt anymore. You don't want to miss this."

"I'm right behind you," Eric said softly, as warmth spread from his solar plexus to the tips of his fingers.

* * *

**THAT NIGHT:**

"Well," Nate said eventually. "That was the worst Thanksgiving ever."

"I've had worse," Blair admitted. "But that was pretty bad."

"The food was good," Dan contributed.

"It was nice salad," Serena said, peeling a label from Nate's bottle of beer. "With the feta and apples."

"The walnuts," Vanessa added.

"The walnuts were awesome," Nate said. "But that doesn't change the fact that things could have gone better."

"My mother is a bitch," Blair said, with a sharp nod of her head. "But, she'll cool down." Blair glanced at Chuck, who had yet to open his mouth. "She likes to blow off steam, but she'll cool down. Maybe we shouldn't have told her over lunch."

"We should have just concentrated on the food," Nate said wisely. "Eleanor says Blair's throwing away her future and we respond with, 'This is killer stuffing.'"

"She didn't exactly say that," Serena said, casting a glance at Chuck, who sat brooding on the other side of their luxurious booth at Victrola. The burlesque club had been recently refurbished, to include a variety of private viewing rooms. With luxurious drapes and private performances, businessmen and movie stars gathered to enjoy the Bass brand of luxury.

But, Chuck didn't seem to be enjoying the opulence of his surroundings. He snapped his finger at the waitress, and she appeared with a bottle of excessively expensive champagne and glasses with strawberries in them. Pouring Blair a glass – sticking to Scotch for himself - he pushed the bottle into the centre of the table, allowing the rest of them to serve themselves. With that, he leant back in his chair and scowled at the stage, where a woman in a flapper dress crooned a low jazz tune.

"It's service like this that makes it hard to enjoy the keggers at Yale," Dan commented.

Serena snorted, still tearing at the label. "At Brown there would be ten people asking whether it's vegan beer."

"When are you going to get out of that tofu-eating cess-pool?" Blair asked, scrunching her nose.

"I'm a vegan," Vanessa said conversationally.

"I'll give you a hint," Blair said snippily. "Champagne doesn't have meat in it."

"It's about the filters that are used. Some of them use animal skin."

"Cool!" Nate said, before shrinking under the sight of Vanessa's glare. "Or not cool at all."

"Why is it," Chuck said without warning. "That Lily has the minimum number of shares permissible for a Board member at Bass Inc.?"

Serena looked at him, surprised that he was speaking. "What do you mean?"

"When Cyrus asked her whether her shares had taken a beating as a result of the _New Yorker_ crap, she said that she didn't have many Bass shares anymore."

"I don't know Chuck," Serena said doubtfully, looking towards Blair for guidance. "Maybe she got rid of them when the price rallied last time after you…left the Board."

"Or maybe the idea of holding stocks that rise and fall according to whether your relatives sneeze or not was too weird," Dan said contemplatively.

"Cyrus was just trying to change the subject anyway," Blair said carefully. "He's good that way."

"Was that what the protesters outside were doing?" Chuck asked darkly. "You saw the placards."

"There were like ten people outside," Nate said, bouncing his leg and looking around the room. He preferred to be outside with the rest of the patrons, watching the way they moved around the dance floor. But, the manager had advised Chuck to take a more quiet room – at the back. With the release of Dwight's article, the Bass name was on everyone's lips.

"On Thanksgiving," Chuck retorted. "Ten people, on a holiday, were so pissed off that they came down to my club to tell me that Bart Bass was an asshole. Stop the presses."

"Chuck," Blair said softly, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

"Forget about it," Chuck snapped, shaking free of her and standing up. "I'm not going to hide in a back room of my own bar. I'm going to go out there and greet my patrons."

"Do you want me to - " Blair started.

"Just stay here," he said sharply.

When her face fell slightly, Chuck leaned in, lifted a curl and placed it behind her ear. "Only one of us needs to be heckled tonight."

She watched him leave the room, an inscrutable expression on her face. Sighing, she fell back into her chair. "God," she groaned. "My mother knows exactly where to hit."

"I don't get it," Nate admitted. "When we were dating, she couldn't wait for us to move in together. Plus you and Chuck are a much better couple than we were."

"It's different," Blair said. "With you and me everything was planned. Eleanor controlled _everything_. But with me and Chuck, with me and Yale – with herself and her…cancer thing. None of it is in her control."

Wordlessly, Serena reached out and tugged at Blair's loose curls, smiling as it sprang back to its position. "Do you guys remember when we used to go out like this? Who would have thought that two years later we would all be sitting around here like adults talking about why you and Nate ended?"

Vanessa leant forward curiously. "What was it like before? When you all went out?"

Serena grinned sheepishly. "I couldn't tell you. I was usually drunk and suggesting that we all take bubble baths."

"And I was usually hoping Blair would let me take a bubble bath," Nate contributed, grinning when Blair shot him a dirty look.

Flushed with the recollection of the days when Nate and she had been so hopelessly in lust with each other, Serena leaned towards him, placing a hand on his knee. "What are you talking about, Nate? I wanted to have a bath with Blair."

"I could have just sat quietly in the corner," Nate teased, leaning in at the feel of her hand. "Filming it."

Dan watched them, surprised by how easy it was. With Serena and Nate, there was never anything particularly difficult. They complicated matters, of course. Serena was always moving forward – always in motion – and Nate was always trying to figure out where he stood. But, when you got down to it, there wasn't anything really standing in their way. He glanced at Vanessa, whose eyes were locked with the singer, whose velvety voice fitted in with the ambiance of the room perfectly.

And then there was Blair, who kept surreptitiously looking back at the door where Chuck had disappeared. "What did you do, Blair?" he asked gently.

She was lost in thought, undoubtedly thinking about the lunchtime announcement that she and Chuck had made. They had been sitting around the living room, no one wanting to stare too much at the way Eleanor's health had deteriorated: her bald head obscured by a Chanel scarf and her thin frame hidden within one of her own designs. Dan had noticed that Nate had seemed particularly affected by the sight of Eleanor laid so low.

"Are you alright, man?" Dan had asked him at one point.

"Yeah," Nate responded quickly. "It's just, you know. Eleanor used to be so…scary. She just looks old. It makes me…you know. Think about stuff."

"I think someone still finds her scary," Dan had commented, glancing at Chuck, who had squared his shoulders and approached Eleanor and Cyrus. Standing formally before them, with Blair looking almost bemused at his stature. Serena had been chattering away with Eleanor, when Chuck cleared his throat.

"Eleanor," Chuck said. "There is something that Blair and I would like to talk to you about."

Dan noticed that Lily was leaning over the counter from the kitchen, craning her neck to eavesdrop. His father was standing next to her, pretending not to listen as he mindlessly dried a glass from the dishwasher.

"Okay," Eleanor said slowly, as if Chuck were a particularly stupid child. "Then feel free to talk to me about it."

Even Jenny and Eric looked up from the corner to watch the scene unfolding.

"Well," Chuck said. "Today, I asked Blair to move in with me. And she said yes." He paused. "That's what we wanted to talk to you about."

Blair sat down on Cyrus' other side. "It's a beautiful apartment," she said, partly to her step-father. "We've got some serious decorating on our hands."

But Eleanor was still staring at Chuck, who looked very alone, still standing before her. "You wanted to talk to me about decorating," she said incredulously.

"Actually," Blair said, assertively. "_I_ wanted to talk to you about decorating. Chuck was paying you the courtesy of telling about what we decided today."

"Oh what you _decided_," Eleanor said, letting out a sharp laugh. "I see."

"Do you?" Blair said, standing up sharply and taking her place by Chuck's side. It was an ironic twist: while she had first rejected Chuck's request, she now found herself defending the idea to her mother.

"I see that my daughter has fully committed to throwing her future away."

"Wine?" Rufus asked loudly, interrupting as two patches of colour appeared on Blair's cheeks, and a deep frown settled on Chuck's face.

"I'd love a glass," Cyrus said politely.

"Yes," Serena said brightly, trying her darnedest to diffuse the situation. "We should be drinking a toast to celebrate."

"This isn't about you," Eleanor said suddenly, addressing herself to Chuck. "You know I'm becoming rather fond of you, Charles. But, tell me. What exactly are you doing with yourself? What grand plan for the future are you and my daughter now embarking on? Because all I've seen recently is you at parties and just drifting."

"That's not fair," Blair said sharply.

Chuck stiffened, placing a placating hand on her hip. He hated to feel that someone was standing in between him and a body blow. "Due respect, Eleanor. But I don't believe that's what I'm doing." He glanced at Blair. "And I don't presume to make plans for Blair."

"You've known my daughter for a long time, Charles," Eleanor said, almost gently. "Have you ever known her to just drift?"

"No," Chuck admitted.

"Well she's doing it right now. And she's doing it because she's holding onto you."

Dan would never be able to erase the look on Chuck's face; he knew that Eleanor saw that she was speaking words that he himself had thought. But, in the deluge that followed – to be continued intermittently between meal courses – one thing stayed with him. Blair and Eleanor were warming up for one of their marathon fights, when Chuck interjected in a quiet voice.

"What's wrong with holding onto things?" he asked.

For a moment, Eleanor looked at him as if he had commenced speaking in Swahili. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Chuck said simply. "What's wrong with us – all of us – holding onto each other?"

"There's nothing wrong with it," Cyrus said, obviously trying to communicate telepathically with his wife as she mouthed wordlessly. "That's all there is."

In the calm that followed, Lily bade them all to sit at the table. The fight had gathered steam later in the afternoon, of course. But, finally, Blair had announced that not only was she moving in with Chuck no matter what her mother said, but that she and her friends were going to go out and get inebriated.

By the time Blair had bullied them all out the door, Dan had seen that Lily and Rufus were engaged in serious conversation next to the fireplace. In spite of himself, he hoped that they would manage to talk Eleanor away from the ledge.

Ever since they had left the house, Chuck had been brooding and Blair had been keeping a careful eye on him. Presently, Dan found her lost in thought.

"Hmm?"

"What did you do on these epic nights out with Serena and Nate?" he asked, gently reminding her of the question he had asked

Blair paused for a moment, remembering those nights of trailing after Serena, wishing she was spun from light and could leap into the air the way Serena did.

"She looked after us," Nate interrupted, smiling fondly at his ex-girlfriend.

"It's true," Serena said. "Chuck pushed us to the edge and then Blair grabbed us before we could fall."

"Chuck looked after us too," Blair said suddenly. "When he wasn't totally destroyed, or getting trouble himself. None of us ever really saw it. But he'd delete the photos or pay off the bouncers. He didn't want to be responsible for…breaking us, I guess."

"You break, you buy," Nate said, leaning back on his chair.

At that point, one of the security guards who manned the front door surreptitiously entered the bar. "Miss Waldorf," he said nervously. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there seems to be some kind of altercation outside."

"What kind of altercation?" Blair frowned.

"Mr. Bass and someone who claims to…"

But, by the time he had spat out the 'Mr. Bass' bit, Blair had leapt to her feet, deftly negotiating the floor in her high heels. Without waiting to hear what was happening, Blair hurried out of the private room, with Nate close behind her.

"Now it really is like the old days," Serena commented, before climbing tiredly to her feet.

"Look on the bright side," Dan said. "You'll probably remember this one."

* * *

The first fight Blair had ever witnessed was between two of Nate's friends from Lacrosse. Outside the gates of St Jude's, they had exchanged disinterested punches, all but posing for photographs. Blair had screamed and buried her face in Nate's chest. Chuck had been leading the betting ring. He had even set up a small table where people could lay odds. It had been Chuck who had been dragged to the principal's office. It turned out that he had orchestrated the entire thing.

The first _real_ fight that Blair had seen had also involved Chuck. It was a bar brawl over some girl who had great legs but very little else to offer. That was an ugly fight. It was all fast moving fists, low blows, and the crunching sound of a nose giving way to the force of a fist. It had been bloody and raw. Blair had felt sick, but there had been no play-acting the damsel. When the bouncers pulled the pair apart, with Chuck still smirking through his bleeding nose.

"The nose bleed is worth the hand job your girlfriend going to give me behind the bar when your ass is carted to jail," Chuck had leered at him. He had then looked around at the crowd of on-lookers. It was only then that his eyes locked with Blair's. She didn't know what her face looked like at that moment, but something about it caused Chuck to pause. His face softened, even through the bleeding. "Are you okay?"

At that moment, the man had tackled him from behind, before she could warn him.

It had been years, though, since Blair had seen Chuck in such a situation. He really preferred to orchestrate fisticuffs from behind the scenes. But, there, outside his own nightclub, Chuck was being physically restrained.

"Chuck," Blair shouted, pushing her way through the crowd that had gathered. When she broke through the crowd, barely aware of the presence of Nate and her other friends at her back.

"Let go of me," he spat at the bouncer, not paying any attention to the flash of video cameras that recorded his twisted, angry features for posterity. His face was unrecognisable, twisted and furious – straining to be free.

"Chuck!"

"Blair?" he asked, twisting around, his arms restrained.

"Chuck," Blair said, running over to him. Ignoring whatever else was happening, she pressed her hands to his chest. "Are you okay? What the hell is going on?"

His face clouded over. "I'm just trying to perform a little quality control at my establishment," he said, glaring over her shoulder.

Blair turned around to see a familiar face sporting a darkening black eye.

"Carter?" she asked in wonder.

It had been almost a year since she had last seen him. When she had mentioned to Chuck that she had seen him at a morning tea she had hosted, he had scrunched his nose up in distaste and grumbled darkly. She had made a mental note to wheedle the story out of him, but shortly after the morning tea, and the Cotillion ball it was celebrating, she and Chuck had no longer been on speaking terms. All she knew was that whenever his name was mentioned, Serena would become evasive, while Chuck and Nate exchanged dark looks.

"Blair Waldorf," he said admiringly. "Haven't you grown up nicely?"

At that, Chuck lunged at Carter, only to be held back by a bouncer. "Do _not_ talk to her. Don't even look at her."

"Relax," Carter said, offering Chuck his usual shit-eating grin. "We're just catching up. It's a free country. And it's nice to see someone is happy to see me."

With that, Carter glanced at Serena, who stood next to Nate, slightly behind the scene. Serena bit her lip slightly, before looking down to the ground. There was something about Carter Baizen that always reminded her of the heady exploits of her Lost Years. He had always been with her during those moments of particularly acute highs: but he was always gone when the lows came upon her. On those pale, grey mornings, it was Blair who blotted her face with a washcloth and force-fed her bagels.

"I'm happy that you're no longer wearing man slides," Blair contributed.

Carter laughed lightly. "I've missed you, Blair."

When Chuck snarled again, Blair turned around to face Chuck. His face softened as she pressed her hand against it.

"Chuck," she said gently. "What's going on? You and Carter used to be friends."

"Operative words being _used to be_," Chuck said darkly. "But, I am capable of controlling myself," he added, shooting a look at the bouncer.

She paused for a moment, before looking at the bouncer. "You heard him. Let him go."

At the sight of her imperious face, the man did release Chuck, allowing him to straighten his suit jacket and tie. With a pointed look at Carter, Chuck snaked his arm around her waist.

"Obviously, I've missed a chapter," Carter commented, glancing at Nate, who didn't seem at all bothered by the fact that Chuck's arm was around Blair. When her hand reached up to squeeze interlock with his, he smiled slyly. "Or an entire book. Maybe we should all sit down and have a drink to catch up. Like old times." At this point, he looked Serena up and down, causing Nate to glower. "Just like old times."

"Maybe another time," Blair said carefully. "But Chuck and I were planning on going home. So maybe you should go somewhere else for those drinks. I'm sure Nate and Serena would love to join you."

But, when she looked around, both Nate and Serena looked like they would rather chug petrol than have a drink with Carter Baizen. Perplexed by their behaviour, Blair shrugged and started pulling Chuck away from the crowd and their cameras.

"Do _not _let him in," Chuck said sharply to the same bouncer who had prevented him from further assaulting his old friend.

"He's not the boss of you," Carter said conspiratorially.

"Actually, he is," the man commented nervously.

For a moment, Chuck and Carter maintained eye contact, before finally, Carter shrugged. Addressing Blair, as the only person who would make eye contact with him, he smiled roguishly. "A raincheck, then."

Blair nodded politely, before all but dragging Chuck down the street. She was distantly aware of some rather sharp words being exchanged between Carter and Nate, but at this point, all she wanted to do was get as much distance between Chuck and trouble as she could.

"You want to tell me what the hell that was about?" she asked, holding onto him as hard as she could and steering him down the street.

"It was nothing. Just a shitty ending to a shitty day."

"But I remember when you, Carter and Nate used to - "

"Just let it go," Chuck snapped.

"Fine."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just not in the mood to talk about Carter fucking Baizen."

"Fine."

"Can we just, not talk for a while?" Chuck asked. When she nodded, he broke free of her grip and walked several paces away from her, kicking the sidewalk. Minutes passed, and Blair found herself growing frustrated at his silence.

"Chuck," she said, as she watched his back and the way his breath turned into steam above his head. "_Chuck._"

With hands shoved deep in his pockets, he stared out at the fine layer of frost on the windshield of a parked car. Frowning at him, even though he couldn't see her, Blair reached out to touch him, to chastise him for ignoring her. But, before her hand could reach him, he did possibly the last thing she would have expected him to do. Taking off one of his gloves, he pressed his finger onto the frosty surface of the glass. With the control and concentration of an artist, he wrote two words.

"_Chuck"_ and "_Blair"._

As she stood gaping at him, he turned around, shooting her a surprisingly sheepish grin. "Should I draw a heart, too? Just in case my masculinity hasn't been shot to shit already…"

Blair bit back a smile, wrapping her arm around his waist and leaning her head on his shoulder. Breathing in the smell of the damp, winter air on his expensive black coat, she couldn't help but stare at their names written on the windshield, the condensation dripping at the bottom of the letters, so that Blair fancied that the heat of Chuck's gloved hand had managed to warm the entire glass surface.

"Your masculinity is fine," she said softly. "My 'B' is melting."

"Can't have that," Chuck said just as softly, before reaching out and drawing a schoolgirl style heart around their names. "Do you want to walk?"

In all honesty, Blair could have stayed and watched the hypnotic sight of their names as floating blackness in the dark night. But, she nodded, relishing the calm end to a long day. Tomorrow, they would fight more battles – with each other, with her mother, with a public screaming for Bass blood and a man named Dwight who had betrayed them. She would even get to the bottom of this Carter Baizen business. But, for now, it was time to process the fact that soon enough, they would be moving into a beautiful apartment, with each other.

"Your mother's wrong, you know," Chuck said finally. "I'm not drifting. I…I applied to Columbia."

"What?" Blair breathed.

"I wanted to be close by," he explained. "And I never really gave a shit about college, really. I mean I want to go, but I never had any particular preference. I haven't gotten in yet, so that's an issue. But, I know that you're enjoying the film thing, and NYU is great for that. So, I thought I'd just stop fighting it."

"Chuck," she said softly, stopping their progress and lifting his chin to meet her eyes. "Are you sure?"

He smiled at the role reversal – remembering the first time he had uttered those words himself. "I don't care what your mother says. I mean - I care what her opinion is, because I know you care. But, I just want to be close to you."

Blair felt her eyes welling up, behind her eyelashes as she looked down at her shoes. "I just don't want you to feel like you're missing out because of me."

Chuck shook his head, also avoiding her eyes. It was easier to say these things without looking each other in the eye. "I was thinking about that article today. And just once, I'd like to hear the Bass name without some kind of scandal attached to it."

"Dwight doesn't know anything."

"Yes," Chuck said darkly. "He does. The things Bart did – we don't even know the half of it. And I didn't care. I just spent money on booze and women. I thought I could run from Bart's ghost, but I can't. I don't want to. I want to fix some of what he did. And you're the reason why."

"What did I do?" Blair asked, aware of a tear escaping down her cheek.

Chuck smirked as he wiped it away, savouring the way it felt on his finger-tip. "You made me fall in love with you. You told me that you loved me. You made me want to be better."

"You don't have to be a different person for me, Chuck."

"I know. I'm not trying to become a different person, but people do change. Bart didn't believe that. But, I do, now. I'm going to change, you're going to change. But I want us to change together. And I want us to change the world."

"I want that, too." She paused, before laughing and wiping at her eyes. "So. We're going to change the world, are we?"

Chuck laughed, wrapping his arms around her. "Who would have thought that we'd use our powers for good instead of evil?"

"No one would have guessed it," Blair said decisively. "Which is exactly why we're going to do it."

Smiling at each other, they joined hands and walked down the street with new purpose – far from where they had come, but with still more distance to cover. It was true, no one would have guessed that they would combine forces for the greater good. But, no one, including themselves, would have believed that Chuck Bass and Blair Waldorf could love each other so intensely.

They had both believed in the strict laws governing their worlds: those rules laid down so long ago, when they had been naïve enough to believe that you could control these things. They had inscribed these laws that governed who should loved on the insides of their wrists so that they would never forget: so that they would see each other's marks and know that they were different.[5]

Until they had inscribed each other's names on their bodies. And with each kiss, they had broken the Love Laws.

On the streets of New York, the beat of a drum marked a heartbeat. The sounds of doors slamming and people entering and leaving each other's lives filled the crisp air. Steam rose from grates, people shouted and laughed at distant jokes.

And Chuck and Blair – holdings hands as they always did these days – broke the Love Laws that lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much. And wrote their names on the windscreen of a car.

* * *

[1] "I was thinking of you" – from my new favourite show, _The L Word. _ Sounded so sexy in Marina's French accent.

[2] Carol Ann Duffy, "Words, Wide Night." This poem will make another appearance.

[3] My fave line from the West Wing.

[4] Based on a passage from _The God of Small Things_ by Arundhati Roy.

[5] Also from _The God of Small Things, _Arundhati Roy

General credit - I wrote the last scene to the tune of "I'm in Here" by Sia. Might enhance the reading process.

AN: Yes, Carter will have more of a role - not merely a random cameo. In fact, many more loose ends will be tied in the coming chapters. The other day, I sat down and planned out the final chapters of _Lightness and Weight_. The journey is almost over – and I am determined to finish it in the next few months, before I move! It looks as if there will be eight more chapters (at most) and an epilogue. And that epilogue is where the series will end! I hope you're still enjoying the ride.


	12. Chapter 12: Your Name

A/N: This is a pretty long chapter, with a lot of flashback action and very little storyline progress! Sorry if you don't like this sort of thing. You can always skip ahead to "**That Night"** if you want to continue where the previous chapter left off – this is the scene I almost included last chapter. Eventually, this chapter just got too long to continue, so I've decided to just dedicate it to taking a moment to consider how far Chuck had progressed over the course of these stories. These should be among of the last flashbacks; next chapter I've planned pretty much exclusive present-day action.

_Lightness and Weight_

Sequel to _The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair_

**Chapter Twelve:**** Your Name**

_When did your name_

_Change form a proper noun_

_To a charm?_

_Its three vowels _

_Like jewels_

_On the thread of my breath._

_Its consonants _

_Brushing my mouth_

_Like a kiss._

_I love your name._

_I say it again and again_

_In this summer rain._

_I see it,_

_Discreet in the alphabet_

_Like a wish._

_I pray it _

_Into the night_

_Till its letters are light._

_I hear your name_

_Rhyming, rhyming_

_Rhyming with everything._

- "Name" by Carol Ann Duffy

* * *

**Dr. Alsace Dwight, "BASS EMPIRE BUILT ON SAND" **_**The New Yorker**_

"…_There is something oddly compelling about a liar. For most of us, a collection of one or two lies is enough to make our boots heavy and our stomachs tight with anxiety. Any minute, we risk exposure. And for most us the thought of duplicity is exhausting, so that there is something of a relief about exposure. _

_It is a rare thing to meet a true liar – one who lies as well as he tells the truth, until he almost convinces himself of the veracity of his own delusions. Perhaps this is how, when he looked at his precocious fourteen year old 'son', he failed to see passed the arch of Constance Bass' eyebrow and into the eyes of Jack Bass: an infidelity written on the face of a young man whose very nature seemed predisposed towards mischief. _

"_Chuck Bass has become a bit of an urban legend," grins Captain McGarry. "Now, we take any legal infraction seriously. But you have to hand it to the kid. I mean, who get's arrested for stealing a horse and carriage from Central Park with a transvestite prostitute? I mean, solicitation is one thing. But, what do we write on the form? Grand Theft Equine?"_

_When pressed for details on whether Bart Bass would come to the precinct to bail out the young Bass, the Inspector is guarded. He offers vague reports of the aides sent in Mr. Bass' place. It is not hard to imagine the money that changed hands to make even the comical charges disappear._

_It is not surprising, even after learning of the true paternity of Chuck, that Bart continued to dispatch this endless stream of eager Ivy League graduates to smooth over the latest indiscretion. _

"_Six years of college," says former aide, Veronica Downes, now a graphic artist. "And I spent most of my graduate year trying to get Chuck Bass to tell me what he had taken. Or to throw up." _

_It had been a formula laid down in business, and Bart applied it mercilessly to rearing his nephew as his son. Calculate and minimise risk, dispatch the least costly solution to the problem, and then tie a neat bow of confidentiality around the underhand arrangements. For men who have been endowed with unusual powers for work or analysis or ingredients that go to make big personal successes, seem to apply these methods even to their privates lives._[1]

"_It was all about face" Miss Downes speculates, shrugging helplessly at the thought of making sense of the think-machine operating beneath the set expression of Bart Bass. "I never even caught a glimpse of it when I reported back. He never even made excuses like most parents did. He reacted exactly the same way he would when I handed him a briefing paper. Did he care about Chuck? Probably, in his own way. Did he trust that feeling? Not in the least."_

_Those of us who know Chuck may smile at the caricature painted in the stories of his many arrests. But, following on the tails of that mirth, one cannot help but wonder what provoked someone so privileged to take such reckless risks. It is difficult to sustain sympathy, though, knowing that the privileges Chuck Bass has grown up to expect from the world around him were purchased so easily because of those people whose lives were bought so cheaply._[2]

_Although, really, one cannot help but imagine the way it felt, after the pandemonium of the crime scene, to sit along in a cell, watching the way the electric light cast the shadow of the bars on the floor at his feet. _

_In those cells, late at night, after the drunken offenders have passed out, a young boy, listening to the gentle in-and-out of his own breath. The silence that overtakes us after a moment of blind stupidity is matched only by the loneliness that comes with waiting for someone to claim you…"_

**

* * *

FIVE YEARS EALIER:**

It was the first time, before the act would harden into ritual, that it had fallen to Blair to pick Chuck up from jail. Usually, he would call on Nate to pick him up, although once or twice, Blair had accompanied her boyfriend, sitting stoically in the limo and scrunching her nose at the sight of Chuck's ink-stained fingers. She would give him the silent treatment for interrupting her evening with Nate. He would needle her as Nate laughed at the rap sheet that the detectives gave him on Chuck's release.

Blair had never had to do this by herself.

It was harder than she expected, the humiliating ascent to the door of the precinct. Thought it was close to midnight, Blair was wearing sunglasses and a headscarf, naively unaware that any of her classmates would recognise her – if only because of her ridiculous incognito outfit. She couldn't help it, though. She might have flirted with the boundaries between what was morally upstanding and the darks impulses of a moral bankrupt, but she had never come close to falling on the wrong side of the long arm of the law.

It made her feel somehow delicate and childish to find her heart beating so fast and her breathing being so uneven as she approached the front desk. It was always something she fought against when she was in Chuck's presence: this lingering sense that she was a little girl trying to play with Big Kids. And so, she found herself hardening against Chuck, wishing that Nate's voice hadn't sounded so pleading and adorable over the phone from a port where his father's sailing boat had docked. There had been that usual sensation of flying and sinking as she realized that Nate hadn't wanted to call her merely to hear her voice, but that her services were required to free his wretched, criminal best friend from the big house.

"Bart's posted bail," Nate explained, his voice crackling over the bad line. "But, he wants to teach Chuck a lesson in tough love or something. So he's making him stay all night because he has to be released to someone."

"You want to release him to _me_?" Blair asked convulsively. "Will he have a thing around his ankle, like Martha Stewart?"

Nate had chuckled. She liked to hear him enjoying her comments, but somehow baulked at the thought of being the Funny Girl to Serena's Female Lead in Nate's life. When she made Chuck laugh, there seemed to be a sort of victory about it; he so jealously guarded his laughter. Nate was too generous with himself. It made everything he gave her seem to be less valuable.

"Please, Blair? For me?"

There had been no way of denying him. So, she found herself arriving at the police station and walking over to the surprisingly hum-drum office section of the jail. The workers did not seem particularly phased by the fact that at any moment a murderer could walk in. They seemed, Blair noticed, quite bored. She stood at the counter for a while, without causing the officer behind the glass to even look up.

"I need to speak to someone," Blair whispered dramatically, pulling off her sunglasses and giving the police officer a sidelong, stealthy look.

"This isn't a library ma'am," the bored detective responded. "No need to whisper."

The jibe caused Blair to frown and unwind the headscarf from her dark curls. With a glint of satisfaction, she saw the man react slightly to the sight of her fair complexion, which under the artificial light seemed to be touched with a hopeless sorrow. He shook his head, reminding himself of her obvious youth. For her part, Blair was only just becoming aware of her appearance to men, and sometimes, she would look at herself in the mirror, embarrassed by her own vanity when her looks paled so significantly to Serena's. But, she would almost see herself as beautiful.

"It's very late for someone like you to be out on the street," the man said, pulling himself up in his chair and squaring his shoulders. This, Blair could understand. They were both slipping on their costumes and stepping onto the stage. He wanted to be the dashing lead, and she wanted to be the innocent heroine, wilting on the stage, so that audience reached out to try to catch her.

"Thank you for your concern," she said gently, adjusting her curls slightly and trying to convey to him that he had every reason to be worried about her. "But I have a car waiting for me outside. I'm just here to pick someone up."

"So you're alright then," he said, all but wringing his hands in worry. "No one is giving you any trouble."

She could tell that he was just itching to save her. "No one would dare harass me right outside your police station."

He smiled, his entire body expanding with pride. She was getting good at this. Just last week, that Chuck had paid her a compliment about her wiles. Laughing as she smugly returned from the back of Kati's house, triumphantly holding James McCudgeon's boxer shorts.

"You really could convince a man to do absolutely anything for you," he said, almost fondly as he sipped the scotch he had brought to the party, not wanting to subject himself to the array of 'chick drinks' Kati was bound to stock her party with. Blair had been convinced that with Nate off sailing, there was no way she would enjoy the party. When Chuck had arrived to take her to the event, he had acted churlish, informing her that Nate had all but ordered him to accompany her.

She found it hard to believe that Nate would have done such a thing, but if it gave Chuck a veneer to hide his decency behind and it filled her own chest with a strange hopefulness, then she would let herself believe him.

As it happened, she had enjoyed herself a bit more than she really should. He had even agreed to play Truth or Dare with her, and she had the sneaking suspicion that he enjoyed the game as much as she did.

She had tried to control her features at his compliment, but had failed dismally. "Your turn," she had said, the alcohol he had been plying her with making her feel somehow invincible.

"Truth," he had said, before instantly looking like he regretted it.

Blair had paused, briefly considering letting the chance pass her by and let Chuck have an escape route to cease his squirming. "Why did you come here with me?"

Chuck had given her a very pained expression, as if he had just chugged a watermelon Bacardi Breezer. "I like doing stuff with you," he said slowly, as if it were being drawn out of him.

She had been too shocked to respond to that, and she could see a mild play of panic on his face before he mastered it. Seeking to break the tension, he leaned in touched her knee.

"In fact, I can think of some _stuff_ we could be doing right now if you'd just come with me…"

"You're disgusting," Blair had said automatically, but the ghostly words: _I like doing stuff with you_, hung between them. She noticed, for the first time, how pale his face was; it was almost pale as her own. They were cut from the same mould in some ways, although her face was undoubtedly softer. But, she admired his sharp features; they suited him. He was almost handsome to her at that moment. "Dare," she said quickly, cutting the thought off.

He had raised an eyebrow, so she had quickly added, "Bearing in mind that I have a boyfriend."

He had chuckled, but the mood had changed between them and he had hurried off to find some skinny blonde girl to hit on, and she had returned to her minions, who never seemed to approach her when she was with Chuck. More than once, their eyes had met across the room and she had felt strangely embarrassed and utterly aware of herself down to her too-knobbly knees. He had put her in his limo at the end of the night, and even though the windows were too dark for either of them to make out each other's faces, she couldn't shake the sense that his eyes were fixed on hers with the strangest look of regret, before he sharply turned around to entertain the two girls that were calling his name.

Blair had sat back in the seat of the limo, muttering darkly about the rudeness of not seeing your date home at the end of an event. Arthur had eventually wound up the soundproof divider.

After that night, he had withdrawn entirely and had refrained from contacting her. She had decided to be angry with him. Perhaps she should have just let him sit there all night, preferably to be traded like cigarettes by the other prisoners. But, she knew that she could not do that to him. The thought of someone as haughty and proud as Chuck Bass sitting in a cell – maybe with another person – just seemed too distasteful for Blair to withstand.

"So what _can _I do for you?" the police officer asked her, his badge announcing that his name was Kirk.

She glanced towards the area where the cells began. "I'm here to pick up Chuck Bass."

He couldn't mask the look of surprise that passed his face any more than he could hide the stain that maculated the pocket of his shirt. "You're a…friend of Chuck Bass's?"

"Not really," she said sweetly. "But I am here to pick him up."

He paused doubtfully, glancing at the screen of the computer. "Well, we told Bart Bass that we'd keep him overnight – scare a bit of sense into him…"

She smiled at him, knowing in an instant that she had him wrapped around her littlest finger. For an instant, she imagined Chuck's look of approval, before she reminded herself that she was made at him. "Bart's cooled down considerably," she assured him, trying to impress upon him a fictional degree of intimacy between herself and Chuck's enigmatic father. "Once you get to know him, he's really quite a pussycat. And he doesn't want his son suffering unduly."

She was impressed with herself for keeping a straight face at that. In fact, she managed to offer the man a sweet smile.

"Okay," he said finally, mirroring her smile. "We'll go get him."

She nodded, instantly switching off the charm and returning to her businesslike mode. As she stood primly in the entrance of the department, eyeing the plastic chairs with distaste, he turned around suddenly to regard her. Now that he was out in the open, not hidden behind the plastic divider, she noticed that he was quite portly and short.

"You're a nice girl," Kirk said. "I wouldn't think someone as nice as you would be hanging about someone like Bass. You should watch yourself."

Blair offered him a tight smile, but didn't respond. He shrugged to himself and hurried through the barred door.

So, he thought her nice, did he? Blair thought for a moment of all the things that had been said or written about her on Gossip Girl. That she was an inhuman female demon, that she was an over-achieving Type A control freak, that she was well-dressed, that she was bright and smart about her work, that she was sullen and quarrelsome and had a temper that would terrify anyone, that she was cunning and devious. How was it possible to be all of these different things at once? It was exhausting, really. If she could barely make sense of it, then what hope did anyone else have?[3]

That was why she tried so hard to smooth herself over when she stood before Nate: to make herself sweet and no more than a china doll. But, when the veneer would crack, he would see all these other facets to her burst to the surface and he would frown disapprovingly. Those exact same qualities that caused him such amusement in Chuck's character were such a cause of distaste in his girlfriend.

Perhaps it was because she was so deep in thought that she scarcely noticed when Chuck appeared at the entrance to the front-of-house, wobbling slightly on his feet and being accompanied by two officers, as well as Kirk, the man she had charmed at the counter.

For a moment, he didn't look cocky in the least. He looked like someone who had been alone with himself for too long: someone who had sat in a dark room lit from the outside in irritating fluorescence. He was sporting an immaculate suit, but it was rumpled and the top buttons were undone. They appeared to have taken his tie; it was one of the things in the garish yellow envelope they returned to him. He glanced at Blair before he accepted the envelope, as if he were actually _embarrassed_ about the entire scene. He had always seemed to take such pride in his indiscretions. She didn't like seeing him acting so quiet and withdrawn.

Striving for some normalcy, she offered him a bitchy smile. "So, what did you do this time, Bass? Or were you just in isolation because they were worried your STDs could start a pandemic in Manhattan?"

Kirk seemed surprised at the change in her demeanour. Back behind the plastic divider, having performed his function, she showed no further interest in interacting with him.

Chuck offered her a cocky grin, as if relieved that they had returned to common ground. "They were just worried that my sweeping mass-appeal to the women of New York was going to cause a riot."

"As they ran away from you," Blair commented.

As always, when she reached the most towering extremes of her snippiness, Chuck seemed the most impressed with her. He didn't even bother refuting what she had said, just signing the paperwork where Kirk pointed as he cast surprised glances at the girl who had seemed like such a wilting flower only minutes earlier.

"Sign here," Kirk said mechanically. "And here. Here, here, here and here."

When Kirk turned another page, Chuck raised an eyebrow. Blair noticed that he was holding onto the counter rather hard and was swaying slightly on his feet. "Are you making me buy someone's house or something?"[4]

"You're lucky your girlfriend came to pick you up," one of the new officers commented, chewing gum and fingering his belt. "That guy across the hall from you looked like he was interested in taking the relationship to the next level."

"I'm not his girlfriend," Blair said quickly, causing Chuck to smirk slightly.

"No," he said, and Blair could tell from his thick voice that he was still drunk. "We're keeping things casual."

"I've changed my mind," Blair said nastily. "Put him back in the cell."

"Don't be that way, sweetheart," Chuck said mockingly.

The men chuckled as Kirk gestured for Blair to sign the form. She looked at him doubtfully, trying to ignore the feeling of Chuck leaning in slightly, as if using her as a human leaning-post. "This won't go on my permanent record, will it?"

"Your signing a form, Waldorf," Chuck said, rolling his eyes. "Not committing a felony."

"Well you're the expert," she spat, signing the page. "And the traditional response would be 'thank you for picking me up, Blair.'"

"Now Waldorf," he said smarmily, leaning in to smell her hair as Kirk snatched the form away from them – as if scared that he might be electrified if he came too close to them. "You know I'm not a traditionalist."

"You're done," Kirk said, still bewildered at their dynamic.

Chuck continued to lean on the counter, before looking at the two cops who had escorted him. Blair noticed that he was still unsteady on his feet, but she was sure that the police officers just thought he was a smart ass prep school punk.

"So," Chuck said smarmily, leaning heavily on the desk. "Just to clarify. Which one of you is the good cop and which one is the bad cop?"

"Come on," Blair said through gritted teeth. "Let's go."

"Because I've got some service suggestions for the Good Cop," Chuck continued, unabated. "And I'd also like to tell the Bad Cop to suck my…"

"Come _on_," Blair interrupted, dragging him away by the arm.

"Excuse me," Chuck called over his shoulder. "I'll be in touch."

"At your arraignment, I imagine," the police officer who made the joke about one of Chuck's cellmates.

"Oh, burn," Chuck called over his shoulder.

"Burn?" Blair asked, pushing open the door and pulling Chuck with her. "You've been spending too much time bedding my minions."

But, at the feeling of the cool night air on his face, Chuck had stopped moving and had turned his face up to look at the sky. "Free at last," he said smugly, still leaning on her for support.

"Only because Nate told me to come," Blair said, forgetting that she had been the one who started the onslaught of arrogant sarcasm. "If I'd had my way, I would have left you in there."

Chuck pulled away from her, making Blair start at the sudden withdrawal of warmth. Straightening up, as if forcing himself to sober by sheer force of will, he reached into the envelope and pulled out his tie. "I'm sure you would have," he said stiffly.

With that, he started descending the stairs, leaning on the railing and focussing hard on keeping upright without her support.

Blair stayed at the top of the stairs. "You're really not going to thank me, are you?"

"By the sounds of things, I should be thanking Nathaniel," Chuck said, pausing at the foot of the stairs. "For having you at his beck and call."

Blair didn't respond to that, but merely pulled on her sunglasses and her headscarf. "Come on," she said coolly. "I'm seeing you home."

He snorted. "Why bother?"

"Because it's what polite people do," Blair said snootily, recalling the way he had carted her off in his limo to enjoy further debaucherous activities. She stood next to her car, waiting for him to make his way from the base of the stairs to the vehicle that was still idling on the curb.

When he reached the car, he didn't attempt to climb in the other side, but leant face-first against the door near where she stood. He leant on the hood of the car and glanced over at her.

"Truth," he said suddenly.

"Are you having a psychotic episode, Bass?"

"Truth," he repeated.

She narrowed her eyes at him, before catching on to his game. "Do you appreciate me picking you up?"

He refused to make eye contact with her, looking across the street. "Yes."

"Okay then," Blair said, before reaching out and putting her hands daintily around his waist. He jumped at the feeling, and Blair had to force herself to mask her satisfaction at the sight. When there was enough space between him and the car door, she pulled the door open and glanced at him, one hand still on his side, keeping him upright. He still had one elbow on the roof of the vehicle, and for a moment, even in his drunken state, Blair's breath caught at the vulnerable look on his face, and the intensity of his gaze as it rested on her hand, touching his side.

She pulled her hand away quickly, adopting a business-like pose. "Get in," she snapped.

He shook his head slightly, as if trying to clear it and climbed slowly into the back seat of the car. He had finally mastered his features - it would take another year for his face to master itself so that not a single feeling could escape. When she had double-checked that all his limbs were accounted for in the car, she started to close the door.

"You're welcome," she said briskly, before closing the door and hurrying to the other side of the car. They didn't exchange another word.

**

* * *

FOUR MONTHS EARLIER:**

**Beijing, China.**

The rumour had spread in whispers, so that even the foreigners had heard rumours of the coming demonstration. The general advice appeared to be to stay indoors. But, Chuck had never been one to accept the advice of authority figures, and besides – he wanted to check his emails, feeling a strange thrill at the thought that there would be an email from Lily.

At the concierge's desk, he asked the rumours that had been knocking around the streets and even in the bar at the hotel.

"Just a small protest," the man at the desk informed him, with a confident grasp of English that many of the other employees lacked. "A few dissenters. Nothing to worry about."

Feeling a renewed sense of confidence, Chuck thanked him for his time, before pausing. There was no way he'd be able to convince Blair to stay inside. He knew it was unbearably paternalistic and patronising, but he couldn't help it. The thought of her wandering around the streets without him when there was even the merest chance of danger was more than he could bear. Thinking laterally, Chuck arranged for a full afternoon of pampering for Blair, asking the concierge to inform her that he would be taking her out for a delicious banquet in the evening, after a day of massages and sauna visits. The next day, he had hired a shady character with a van to drive them to the Great Wall of China.

Feeling heartened that Blair would be distracted for the day, he hurried out into the vast streets of Beijing. He couldn't get over how large the blocks were: how stately the buildings were. Each monument seemed to be a proclamation of China's strength and long history. It was a novel feeling, walking until he was actually tired. And Chuck almost enjoyed the feeling, so used to lazily summoning a limousine. Although, once they left Europe both Chuck and Blair had been forced to visit a department store to buy more comfortable shoes. Blair had even been pleasantly surprised by H & M, which she had always considered to be a hopelessly plebeian chain store. They were trying new things; that was for sure.

One of these new experiences was that of using public internet cafes for the purposes of communicating with their families back home. Although, if he were honest with himself, Chuck had to admit that he never truly felt comfortable checking private emails with other people sitting on either side of him on these ancient PCs. He knew that it was silly, but he found himself affecting an ironic look on his face as he spent minimal sums on accessing the computers. He would search his wallet for a small enough denomination and smirk when he made eye contact with the unkempt backpackers he came across.

They, of course, had no idea who he was or why he kept giving them creepy looks.

There was only one man who didn't seem at all put off by the sour look on Chuck's face. Sitting directly opposite him, Chuck noticed that the man gave him a huge smile, which exposed crooked teeth.

"You, American?" the man said in broken English, smiling warmly.

"Yes."

Most people would have been put off by the brisk response. But the man seemed thrilled that he had guessed correctly. He smiled again, as Chuck focused on typing in the code printed neatly on the bottom of the receipt he had been handed at the front desk.

He looked up, irritated when the man continued to grin at him. He looked down at his emails, noting that Serena had sent him another irritated, single-line email: _WHERE ARE YOU?_ He rolled his eyes, knowing that Lily would have certainly informed her that they were fine. She was just smarting from the feeling of being deserted without explanation, but Chuck fully supported Blair's attempt at karmic retribution. Reading Lily's email, Chuck found himself at a loss at how to respond. Why on earth would she tell him about choosing a new painting for the front hall? He could never quite wrap his head around the prospect that families might simply want to share the comings and goings of their days. He and Bart had almost always maintained a comfortable distance.

Looking up and seeing the man still smiling at him, he frowned. "Can I help you with something?"

The man climbed to his feet eagerly and showed Chuck a book he had been keeping on his lap. It was in mandarin, but Chuck saw clearly that it was a dirty, torn copy of Barack Obama's autobiography. Chuck looked at him, nonplussed.

"I'm pretty sure you don't think I'm Barack Obama," he said carefully.

"Change," the man said eagerly, searching about his mind for the English words. "Change…"

"Change we can believe in?" Chuck asked, recalling one of Obama's slogans.

The man nodded again. "Obama," he said, tripping slightly over the word.

"Okay," Chuck said carefully, before handing the book back to the man and angling himself back towards the screen of the computer. He cast the man a dismissive look. "Go Obama," he offered, before turning away completely.

The man didn't seem offended. Soon, he returned to his side of the table, thrumming his hands on the cover of the book and nodding to himself.

Shrugging at the strange interaction, Chuck quickly finished sending his emails and hurried towards the door, glancing at the screen of the man's computer. It seemed to be some kind of forum, but he payed the man no mind. Chuck had reached the escalators leading back into the streets outside, when he felt a hand violently grab at his sleeve. Turning around, readying himself for an attack, he found himself face-to-face with the same man.

Pulling himself to his full height, Chuck glared at him. "Get your hand off me," he spat.

But the man was still tugging at his sleeve. It took a minute for Chuck to recognise what he was brandishing in his other hand: it was Chuck's wallet. He had clearly left it on the table in the Internet café. Surprised, and feeling very guilty, he allowed the man to press the wallet into his palm. When they reached the bottom of the escalator, Chuck reached into the wallet, pulling out a note to give to the man.

"No, no," he said, obviously insulted at Chuck's presumption that he would want payment.

Uncertainly, Chuck returned his wallet into his back pocket and decided that the best approach would be to offer the man a smile; that seemed to be a type of universal communication.

"Thank you," he said, uncertain as to whether he would understand. "Thank you…um…"

The man pointed to himself. "Delun."

"Chuck," he responded, pointing at his chest. There seemed to be nothing else to say. Delun backed away and disappeared from the doors, leaving Chuck at a loss. He was not used to feeling indebted to someone without settling the score. But, the strange, passing meeting seemed to be completely random. He was just going to have to accept the kindness of this stranger, without interrogating his motives. He did, however, check to make sure that everything was still in the wallet. He felt extremely guilty when he saw that every card was accounted for.

He had decided to do a bit of shopping, to allow Blair to be pampered for a while longer. When he finally left the department store, he could hear a distant sound of chanting from up the street. Not paying it much mind, he strolled up the street grinning at the thought of a very relaxed Blair back at the hotel room.

Until, suddenly, he found himself emerging from the somewhat leafy backstreets into the vast emptiness of Tiananmen Square. He and Blair had visited it the day before, marvelling at the large picture of Mao, and the orchestration of the guard changes. Of course, they were both aware of the rich history of protest, and the tragic events of 1989. Out of curiosity, he had Googled the massacre, finding that the search would not bring about any results: only error pages in the impenetrable mandarin script that Chuck could not make sense of.

He saw immediately that the concierge had been grossly mistaken. It was not in the slightest a small gathering of student dissidents. It was a huge gathering of thousands of protesters, holding up placards towards the Gate of the Heavenly Palace and allowing their voices to drift over the gates of the Forbidden City.

It was a rare thing for Chuck Bass to feel small and insignificant, but in this groundswell of people power, he found himself taking pause and watching the protests. There was a smattering of foreign press, and when Chuck saw a microphone with the CNN logo emblazoned on the side, he approached the journalist.

"What are they protesting?"

"The arrest of Liu Xiaobo," the journalist explained without much interest, scribbling in his notebook.

"Who the hell is that?"

The woman looked up, obviously on the verge of laughing at his ignorance. But, when her eyes fell on his familiar face, her eyes widened. "You're Chuck Bass."

"Am I?" Chuck responded sarcastically, as if it was a revelation to him. "Who is Liu Xiaobo?"

"A dissident," the woman explained briskly, obviously irritated at his cheek, but too impressed with his surname to ignore his questions. "Published Charter 08, calling for free elections, human rights, free speech – all those terrible, subversive things. He was arrested at the end of last year."

Chuck glanced at the crowd. "Isn't it dangerous to protest that sort of thing in the middle of Tiananmen Square?"

The woman smoothed her short hair and gave him a look that suggested that she thought he was too stupid to be a sentient being. "Yes."

"But they're doing it anyway," Chuck said, mostly to himself.

"Yes," she said again, before offering him an acidic smile. "You're not imagining it."

He ignored her, moving towards the throngs of people, holding pictures of a mild-mannered man with glasses. He noticed now that there were a few placards holding signs in English, mainly for the benefit of the foreign press. _Free Liu Xiao Bo_.

Chuck noticed an ominous, growing crowd of police wearing riot gear, gathering on the steps to the left of the Square. He knew that it would be a good idea to leave the Square at this point, but for some reason, the affecting sight of a group of people united for the purposes of protesting moved him. He wished that Blair was with him, until he eyed the bats that the riot police were holding and felt a swell of relief that he had manipulated her into staying indoors.

As if they were acting on his thoughts, the riot police descended on the crowd.

As the crowd surged forward, Chuck found himself swallowed in their ranks, struggling to get through the crowd of people. Catching his balance, Chuck looked around him, searching for gaps in the crowd that would allow him to escape from the political struggles of the populace and back to the warm embrace of Blair and their hotel room.

He bore left, considering that he may be able to make it Mao's tomb and escape out the back of the crowd. But, he quickly saw that this was a mistake; it put him in the direct path of the police and the vast majority of the protesters. Frowning, he searched for the small gaps that had made this direction so promising.

And, without warning, Chuck found himself face-to-face with Delun.

There was no accounting for it. Although, hadn't Blair once told him that once you meet a person, make a friend, your brain dedicates a certain section of itself to that person. That is why, she had explained, reading aloud from the article in _Scientific American, _a friend's face stands out in the crowd. Of course, they were not friends. Not really, but when Delun, now clutching a defiant placard, saw Chuck he offered him a big grin.

He even opened his mouth to speak, until at that instant, the gloved hands of a member of the riot squad clasped Delun's shoulders and causing him to drop his placard – and, Chuck saw, his copy of Obama's book. Without thinking, acting on auto-pilot, Chuck reached down and picked up the book, trying to pass it to Delun.

Before he could reach him, however, a strong arm pressed against his middle, winding him slightly. Without explanation, the polie dragged them both out of the protest.

It was only when they were free of the crowd that Chuck pushed at the arm that held onto him. Straightening his lapels, he offered them a furious look. "Let go of me."

The man looked doubtfully at Delun's captor. But, when the other man said something quickly in mandarin, he dutifully let go of Chuck and allowed him to step away.

"Get out of here," the other man said, in perfect English.

"Fine," Chuck said smoothly, noticing that he still held Dulan's book. "But I'm taking my friend with me."

"No," the man said simply. "You're not."

He could tell that Delun had no idea what was happening, but the sight of his trusting, hopeful expression was enough to compel Chuck to stand up to his full height and offer the police officer terrifying glare. "I don't think you understand who you're dealing with."

The man snorted.

"He didn't _do _anything wrong," Chuck said, although he had to admit that he had no idea whether Delun had done anything or not. All he knew was that at this moment, he would have done anything to stand between the strange, kind man and the men that held his arms back painfully and led him towards incarceration. Chuck may not have known much about the politics of Liu Xiaobo, but he knew enough to guess that Delun wouldn't exactly be showered with praise for his involvement in the protest.

The man had the audacity to look bored, before pulling Delun away with him to the waiting police cars. "Don't get involved in what you don't understand, sir."

"Hey," Chuck called, hurrying after him – not minding that it was undignified. "I am not someone you ignore. I'm Chuck Bass."

The man glanced over his shoulder, before shoving Delun into the back of the police car. "How nice for you."

With that, he nodded at the other officers, who ganged together to force Chuck back from the car. All he could do was watch as they carted the man who had salvaged Chuck's wallet. When enough people were shepherded into the back, the door slammed, and Chuck could no longer see Delun's face.

"Go back to your hotel, sir," the officer said, before clearly deciding that he had better things to do then engage with some American tourist who didn't know anything.

For a while, Chuck stood there, watching as the police broke up the protest, throwing people into the back of police cars or forcing them to scatter and run for it. Eventually, though, his presence seemed to bother the other officers, who kept pushing him back, trying to gesture for him to go about his business. It was only because of Chuck's very obvious status as a foreign national that they didn't arrest him themselves.

"I'm going," he spat at the officers who laid their hands on his chest. "Don't fucking touch me. I'm going."

And with that, Chuck hurried down the street, still clutching the book that he had picked up off the ground, thought well aware that he wouldn't be returning it to its rightful owner.

Blair was not in the hotel room when he returned, and he remembered idly that he'd arranged for her to have a mud-bath down in the bowels of the hotel. Sitting in the hotel room, looking at the staggering modernity of the Beijing skyline and wondering at the differences between the bustling cityscape and the crumbling slums, Chuck found himself idly leafing through Delun's book, realising that he had never bothered reading it in English. He'd never bothered with a lot of things, he realized.

When Blair slipped through the door, he didn't show any sign that he'd heard her. She started slightly, seeing him sitting in the dark with a glass in his hand. But, she soon saw that his dark, pooling eyes were watching her greedily: pink and clean from her pampering.

"What are you doing here, all alone?" she asked softly, before coming to a stop just in front of his chair.

"Drinking," he said simply, sitting up straight in the armchair.

"What are you drinking?"

"Some plum wine bullshit," he intoned, his arms stretched straight and tense on the arms of the chair. "Did you have a good afternoon?"

She smiled widely, kneeling down so that their eyes were level. She reached out to touch the five o'clock shadow that had formed on his jaw. He closed his eyes at the feeling. "I had a fantastic afternoon," she paused. "But I have a feeling that you didn't."

He opened his eyes, and for an instant, Blair was reminded of the vulnerable look he had given her outside a police station, years ago. Those looks had become few and far between; even though he had learned how to express his feelings in words, he never liked to look vulnerable _per se_. At that time, outside the police station, she'd had the feeling that he would have told her what was lurking behind his eyes. But, he was a grown man now. He had mastered himself years ago.

"It was fine," he said simply. "We should get dressed for dinner."

Almost disappointed, she turned around, shrugging. "Okay," she said simply, before shrugging off her robe and turning around to the closet.

With a smile of satisfaction, she heard him inhale sharply at the sight of her exposed body. She pretended not to hear it, opening the closet where they had meticulously housed their clothes. Even during their adventurous journey, they couldn't resist their mutual desire to ensure their appearances were impeccable. Even the gear they had brought for the Great Wall was more Tommy Hilfiger than outdoorsy.

She had expected him to come to her, wearing only her underwear in such a suggestive way. Perhaps she had imagined his gasp – maybe he hadn't even noticed her near-nudity. But, when she glanced over her shoulder, she found that he was staring at her intently.

"Chuck?" she asked uncertainly.

He shook his head as if to clear it. "Why do you love me?" he asked finally.

She frowned, surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"

"Why do _you_ love _me_?" he repeated, placing a slight emphasis on the words, as if he were something so lamentable and low that the sheer prospect of her loving him was outlandish and ridiculous. "I've never done anything to deserve it. To deserve someone like you."

"I can't even answer that question," she said, until a crestfallen look passed over his face.

"Sorry I asked," he said stiffly, before walking over to the window.

"Oh Chuck," she said gently. "I didn't mean it like that."

He didn't turn around to look at her. But, soon enough, he couldn't ignore her any longer; her arms were wrapped around his waist and her face rested between his shoulder blades.

"I love you down to the marrow, with all my heart," she said quietly, feeling her breath warm his skin and listening to the beat of her heart. "I can't dissect it, and I can't dissect everything I love about you. I love all of it: the good, the bad, the annoying." She smiled when he chuckled at that. "What happened today, Chuck?"

He sighed. "I just realized that in my entire life, I've never really done anything."

She didn't say anything, not wanting to interrupt him.

"I saw a protest today," he said uncertainly, not sure how to explain why it had affected him so deeply. "All these people gathered together because they believe in something bigger than themselves. I've never felt like that." He turned around to face her, enjoying the feeling of her bare skin against his clothes. "The only thing I've ever believed in, really, is you and me."

She couldn't help it; her heart melted at the words. "That's a pretty good start," she said with a smile.

He nodded, breathing in the scent of her hair. "It is," he said quietly. "But today, for the first time in my life, I actually stopped to think. All I've ever done, really, is cause people pain. I can't think of a single person whose life is actually better because I was put on earth."

Blair paused, as if performing an intricate arithmetic in her head. Then, with a resolute nod, in a tone that brooked no refusal, she responded. "My life is."

"Is it really, though?" he asked uncertainly. It was rare for him to need this sort of reassurance, so Blair found herself frowning seriously at him.

"Yes," she said pointedly. "It is."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair and looking away from her honest eyes. Without making eye contact with her, he thought over the scenes from earlier that day, the powerlessness of standing by and watching someone be carted off to jail for standing on principle. Usually, when Chuck was carted off to jail, it was for standing on the hood of a car and singing in a drunken stupor.

"I just had a strange day," Chuck said dismissively, shaking off the lingering sense of his own insignificance in the grand scheme of things. "But it's nothing that won't be cured by a delicious dinner, followed by an even more delicious - " he leaned in suggestively " – _dessert_."

Blair smiled uncertainly, glancing at the book that still sat on the coffee table next to the armchair he had been sitting in. Frowning slightly, she reached out for it. "Who does this belong to?"

Chuck looked at the book for a moment. "No one important."

"Should I give it to the front desk?"

"No," he said quickly. "I want to keep it."

He knew he would tell Blair the full story one day, but right then, the feeling was only just brewing inside of him: the faint voice that whispered to him that he was capable of being more than he had been in the past. It was a voice that he was starting to believe; it was Blair's voice.

**

* * *

THAT NIGHT:**

They had walked all the way to the Waldorf apartment, tacitly agreeing that Blair would spend the evening at her mother's house. In the morning, Lily was determined that Chuck join the Van Der Woodsen-Humphrey clan for a family breakfast. The tone of her voice brook no refusal, although even Lily knew that Chuck would never allow himself to become truly subject to another person's wishes. It was something about him that scared most people, knowing how easily he could turn away from the people who dared care about him.

The fact that Blair knew that she was the exception filled her chest with warmth: it made her feel different to other people. And somehow, without her ever really noticing, she found that herself believing that she was indeed as remarkable as she seemed in the reflection of his eyes.

That night, after insisting that he see her all the way to the Penthouse, he had stepped into the darkened hallway. Eleanor had not been expecting Blair home, and she'd had Dorota turn off all the lights. In the dimness, he was oddly silent. Blair placed her keys on the small dish that Eleanor had always kept near the door. On the table next to it was a large coffee table book, which Chuck picked up and angled towards the still open elevator, which cast a dim glow over them.

Blair felt strangely nervous; it was so rare for them not to sleep in the same bed. After the words they had shared earlier, Blair knew that they were about to embark on something entirely new, something slightly terrifying. But, Chuck looked so calm and serious as he examined the first few pages on the book on Caravaggio that Blair suspected Eleanor had never even opened.

He looked up at her, so suddenly that she was self-conscious in her careful examination of the plane of his face. "Bart once told me that Caravaggio was a man who was always in love," he said seriously, before closing the book and placing it on the table. "Not just _in _love, but always sinking within it. They're the words Bart used. Sinking in it. He made it sound so reckless: always confused, always disorientated." He reached out a hand, but stopped before he reached her face, as if he dare not touch her – as if she were a priceless painting. "I don't think of it as sinking, though. I don't even think of it as falling."[5]

"What do you think of it as?" Blair whispered, breathlessly.

Chuck paused.

"I don't know," he said finally, as Blair felt a sinking disappointment that he had failed to put it into words. She hungered for his breath-taking words. Though, she couldn't blame him, really. She was at a loss as well.

"Maybe it's not like anything else," she said thoughtfully. "Maybe it's totally unique."

"It is," Chuck said, as if he knew it for certain. "But, it's also really simple." This time, he did kiss her, pulling her close to him and pressing his lips to her forehead. "I am so happy with you. Happy to be with you. Like this."

She inhaled the still-damp smell of his coat. "Is that what this feeling is? Because if this is happiness, then I've never anything like it before."

She wasn't sure whether he heard her. But, after a few more moments he glanced upstairs. "I should let you sleep."

"I won't sleep," she said, smiling ruefully. "I'm too used to you stealing the covers."

"I need to keep warm," he protested. "Because then I can use my body warmth to heat us both up."

She shook her head as he stepped away. It was so alien, this bidding each other farewell. Neither quite knew what to do. They would take a step towards the elevator, before lingering in each other's presence for another few seconds. For a while, Chuck leaned on the frame of the doorway, looking distractedly into space.

Finally, though, Chuck sighed and stepped into the elevator.

"One thing I'm definitely looking forward to is coming home to you," he said, mostly to himself.

He didn't seem to notice how much his words touched her. If he had realised how strongly her heart was beating at that moment, there would have been no convincing him to leave; had he stayed a second longer, she would have jumped him – there in the middle of the hallway. Eleanor and Cyrus could have watched for all she cared. Because at that moment, something inside her seemed to fall into place as she realized that it was really happening. After all the false starts giving way to bad ends, she and Chuck were finally moving forward.

It came upon them quietly, in the dark entrance hall where he had skulked many times before seeking to torture her or banter with her or turn another page in their excruciating love story. Exchanging small smiles, they knew that when they next met, they would be different people. Curiosity, sadness, and thwarted longing were all behind them now; this was a true returning – to themselves and all their past and future and the encroaching presence of tomorrow.[6]

She wished there was some way for her to convey how much they had to look forward to, but all she could do was watch him from the darkness. Inside, it was as if something by an unknown composer, powerful and strange and strong, was about to be played for the first time. But, when she tried to put it into words, all that came out was his name.

"Good night, Chuck," she said finally.

He offered her an amused half-smile, before kissing her lightly on the lips. "Good night, Blair."

She reached up to touch her lips where the faint imprint of his lips lingered. She was almost relieved that he was leaving; he had positively stolen the words from her mouth. Now, she could enjoy the sight of him, without having to think of something to say.

She had learned all the varieties of his darkness, the colour of his forearm against the colour of his neck when he regarded her lying on his side in bed. But there, offering her a chaste kiss, as if at the end of a first date – she had felt breathless at the sight of him as the electronic light illuminated his face, the silence of his bearing, and his dark and elegant coat that accentuated the sharpest angles of his body and face. For a moment, Blair could forget that she had memorised his body, down to the self-sufficient slope of his shoulders, or down to the dark hairs on his arms and chest that would glisten when he bathed. He seemed like a dashing and mysterious stranger, bidding her goodnight at the end of a truly wonderful date.

They had skipped courtship, really, tumbling so quickly towards passionate love. But as the elevator doors closed, and he offered her an ironic smile, there was a strange sense of anticipation in her stomach.

They had agreed on it during the walk home; tomorrow, they would start buying furniture for their new apartment.

Alone for now, she climbed the stairs to her childhood bedroom. She had passed many sleepovers here, when Lily had taken flight to follow a man or run away from one. On this grand bed, she and Serena had shared secrets like beads or marbles. Blair was a proud collector, and Serena gave of herself without even thinking of betrayal. They had talked about boys; they had talked about their friends; they had even exchanged a chaste, close-mouthed kiss – both curious to know what the fuss was about.

And soon, she would call another bedroom hers. For a moment, she sat down on the bed, contemplating the changes that would soon be made to her daily life.

"I heard you come in."

Blair didn't notice Eleanor standing at her door until she heard her speak.

"I'm sorry," Blair said, softly. "Did I wake you?"

Eleanor was wrapped in a large, warm dressing gown. It was very different to her usual style of silky robes – a style that Blair had emulated since she was very young. Her shorn hair was on display, and as always, Blair felt strangely entranced by the diminution in her stature and bearing. Eleanor may have been taller than her, but for the first time, Blair felt as if she had heads on her mother.

"I was awake already," Eleanor said, shifting slightly on the balls of her bare feet.

"Is the floor cold?" Blair asked, before gesturing to the bed. "You can sit down if you want."

Surprise and relief chased themselves over Eleanor's face. With her newly shorn hair, it seemed as if her expressions had taken on a new sharpness. Every reaction was written across her face and Blair knew she would have hated it had she been aware of it. Padding across the floor, Eleanor sat next to Blair on the bed. For a moment, they listened to the quiet in-and-out of each other's breaths, as Blair pondered what it had been like when she was a baby, and Eleanor had carried her around in her arms. What had the weight felt like? Had it been a burden to her? Or had there been some comfort in knowing that there was a soft little baby who needed her entirely.

"I'm sorry," Blair said, finally. "I should have told you about moving out...I know that it was something I should have told you by myself. Chuck meant well, but the way he sprung it on you. It was like we were conspiring or something. And we weren't."

Eleanor squeezed her hand in a rare display of affection. "I know you weren't."

"We had a huge fight, you know," Blair said contemplatively. "Because I felt like he was deviating from The Plan by asking me to move in with him. I think he was feeling insecure and wanted to make sure I didn't have a chance to stew by myself and change my mind. Which is crazy; I feel stupid enough about picking a fight over the way I imagined life should go."

"Waldorf women do like to live their lives in their heads," Eleanor said, threading her fingers through Blair's.

"I don't want to be like that anymore." She smiled ruefully. "See this is what Chuck does."

"Unravels your plans?"

"No," Blair said quickly. "That's not it. He just makes me so excited by what's about to happen that I stop making these plans that are too canned and scripted for real life." She cast a glance at Eleanor. She didn't seem mad anymore. "Like when Cyrus asked you to marry him the day of Bart's funeral. It was so un-you. It was un-Waldorf. But, it was sort of perfect for you, too. Don't you think?"

For a while Eleanor's eyes were settled on a distant point. Finally, though, she turned her eyes to Blair's face. "I got something for you."

Blair scrunched up her face. "If it's those armadillo heels you showed me last week, I don't want them. Serena and I think they look like hooves."

Eleanor laughed softly, before walking over to Blair's desk. To Blair's surprise, Eleanor picked up an envelope and handed it to her. There was the New York University crest on the side, and printed in fine font were the words: Tisch School of Arts. Uncertainly, Blair looked up to find Eleanor looking at her with resigned fondness on her face.

"I was going to let you find it on your own," she explained. "I didn't want you to think that I was meddling. But after you left tonight, Lily, Cyrus and I started talking. And Lily showed me some of that documentary you and your little Rastafarian friend have been working on. You're very talented, Blair. The way you were with those women. You're good at this. And I can tell you enjoy it."

It was something Blair had never considered before. She had known herself to be a hard worker, an intelligent and driven person. But, she had never before thought that she had a talent for anything in particular. Although, now she thought of it, her entire life had been edited on the cutting room floor before Chuck had taken her hand and she had tumbled into a life more expressive, passionate and challenging than the world she watched on the silver screen.

"You think I should go to film school?" Blair asked uncertainly.

Eleanor shrugged. "I think education is important. And so do you. So what if it doesn't look exactly like we all thought it would? NYU is a great school. It's no Yale, but it's close to home." Eleanor smiled ruefully. "Wherever your home is going to be. Not to mention the fact that they offer a producer's courses, which means you can learn some practical skills as well as the artistic ones." She once more took her place next to Blair on the bed. "Besides, I've seen you organise your sleepovers. You'd be wonderful at harassing location agents."

"It's not what we planned," Blair said doubtfully.

Eleanor shrugged, placing a hand on Blair's shoulder. "I spent so much of life terrified that I would make a mistake and live to regret it. I played it safe, and to be honest, it was a disaster. If you find something…someone…you are truly passionate about, then I think you should hold onto it." She retracted her hand, brushing her cheek and shrugging. "Or maybe that's just the chemo talking."

"But," Blair said hesitantly, suddenly overcome with nervousness. "Studying something like film…it's different to what I've done before. I've always studied things that have definite answers. What if, all the inside stuff…what if I'm not good at it?" Blair stared doubtfully at the envelope in her hand, feeling the hard brush of her failings at Yale.

Eleanor raised an eyebrow, squeezing her hand until it was almost painful. "You can be nervous, Blair. It's something new. But, if you're worried that what is inside of you is worthless or embarrassing, then you're not the daughter I raised. And you're not the woman I know you can be."[7]

Slowly, with a hint of lingering uncertainty, Blair fiddled with the top of the envelope. "I'll need to cut together some of the scenes Vanessa and I have worked on. And maybe she can help me with the application process, or introduce me to some of her professors. They already like the documentary we're working on, so that's a boon." As if in a daze, not caring about the late hour, Blair felt the first thrills of ambition that she had experienced since leaving Constance. Pacing before her mother, she narrowed her eyes. "I'm going to need to put some new things together. But, I should also get in contact with my economics teacher from Constance." Her eyes snapped to her desk, where she picked up a silver notebook. "I need to start a list."

"A list is definitely called for," Eleanor said, an amused smile filling her face.

But, Blair was oblivious to her amusement. "Would Cyrus be willing to put me in contact with any of his friends in the industry? I mean, some of the clients he hasn't had to break out of rehab?"

"He's already found some names for you. He's going to place the calls after brunch tomorrow."

"Excellent," Blair said, making a note on the page. She glanced at the timepiece next to her bed. "Vanessa has class at nine tomorrow…this morning…so I could get started on some things over the next few hours and then call her."

"Don't you think you might need some sleep…?" When Blair cast her a horrified look, Eleanor raised her hands to placate her. Before she had the chance to respond, though, the tinny sound of her phone ringing interrupted the conversation.

"It's Chuck," Blair said, before looking at Eleanor doubtfully.

Eleanor couldn't help but be amused that the most recent song Blair had allocated to Chuck was the '90s classic "Whatta Man" by Salt-N-Pepa.[8] Eleanor remembered dancing around her studio to the strains of this song soon after Blair was born. Until Laurel had walked in to find her red-faced and huffing while shaking her groove thang. Suffice to say, she hadn't played the song since. It was nice to see a hint of girlishness in the woman her daughter was morphing into.

"It's okay," Eleanor smiled, before kissing her on the cheek. "Take the call. I'm going to bed."

"Okay," Blair said with a genuine smile, still clutching her notebook. "Thanks, mum."

"It's no problem," Eleanor responded, but Blair had already pressed the phone to her ear.

"You miss me already, Chuck?" Blair asked teasingly.

"Always," Eleanor dimly heard the sound of Chuck's voice through the speaker.

"Well you're just in time to help me scheme."

Eleanor smiled to herself as she headed towards the door of Blair's bedroom. Chuck would know how to convince her to get some sleep. Chuck would take care of her.

_Chuck would take care of her._

For a moment, Eleanor paused on the threshold, glancing back at Blair laughing softly to the lover she had only just bade farewell to. He would, Eleanor realized. He would look after her. As another wave of vicious nausea overtook Eleanor's stomach, she realized for the first time that she was not only relieved that Chuck was there to take care of Blair. She was grateful.

She made a mental note to contact her art dealer to discuss some pieces that would be appropriate for Chuck and Blair's new apartment.

* * *

[1] Based on the final speech in the movie "The Constant Gardener."

[2] F Scott Fitzgerald, _The Last Tycoon._

[3] Margaret Atwood, _Alias Grace_.

[4] Another quote from "The West Wing."

[5] Michael Ondaatje, _The English Patient._ A few passages are loosely based on this.

[6] F Scott Fitzgerald, _The Last Tycoon._

[7] Based on a scene of the _Dead Poet's Society._

[8] I just rediscovered this song – I couldn't resist!

A/N: I know that there was almost no storyline progress in this chapter, but I was in a contemplative mood. Next chapter – **Chapter Thirteen: Tie Your Heart To Mine, Love** - we have colluding Chuck and Blair trying to become each other's biggest assets – including a _Mad Men_ themed dinner party; a bit of Carter and Serena; the exposure of Vanessa's secret; the continuation of Eric's downward spiral! I also wanted to write one last selection of flashbacks – and finish with Dwight's article. As Blair herself observed in this chapter: they are on the precipice of something very new!


	13. Chapter 13: The Sharp Discomfort of Love

AN: Thank you for kindly not criticising the lack of storyline progress last chapter. As always, your reviews and PMs motivate me to write more. I am moved by the kind words you have to say about this story! To answer a question a few of you asked, I'm predicting about 20 Chapters of _Lightness and Weight _altogether.

_Lightness and Weight_

Sequel to _The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair_

**Chapter Thirteen:**** The Sharp Discomfort of Loving You**

_Who, now, when evening darkens the water and the stream is dull,_

_Slowly, in a delicate frock, with her leghorn hat in her hand,_

_At your side form under the golden osiers moves,_

_Faintly smiling, shattered by the charm of your voice?_

_There, today, as in the days when I knew you well,_

_The willow sheds upon the stream its narrow leaves,_

_And the quiet flowing of the water and its faint smell _

_Are a balm to the heart that grieves._

_Together with the sharp discomfort of loving you,_

_Ineffable you, so lovely and so aloof,_

_There is laid upon the spirit the calmness of the river view: _

_Together they fall, the pain and its reproof._

_Who, now, under the yellow willows at the water's edge_

_Close defeated lips upon the trivial word unspoken,_

_And lifts her soft eyes freighted with a heavy pledge_

_To your eyes empty of pledges, even of pledges broken?_

- "To a Musician" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

**The Next Day:**

When Dan had asked Eric to accompany him to the newsstand the morning after Thanksgiving, a wild panic had filled Eric's chest, and his hands had quivered as he did up his shirt and wondered what had provoked this invitation.

Was he starting to slip? Had even self-involved Dan started to notice something wrong with Eric's general demeanour? On measure, the after-effects of Dominic's drugs had left him even more hollowed out than usual. It was to be expected; the high of the night before had seen him lying on his bed watching colours explode before his wide eyes.

"Eric's feeling poorly," Lily said confidently to Rufus as he drifted up the hallway to the sanctuary of his bedroom.

"He did seem to be sniffing the soup with a lot of intensity," Rufus mused. "Perhaps he's feeling nauseous."

Nauseous? Eric had no idea whether he was nauseous or not. He certainly felt different and maybe his stomach didn't feel quite right. But, there was nothing alarming about the sensation. It felt so natural, that Eric was forced to wonder whether _that_ was what had been wrong with him for all these years. It wasn't depression that compelled him to tack razors to his wrist in an embarrassing, _Virgin Suicides_ homage. Rather, it was the fact that he had always needed a little extra: so what if he had to meet seedy characters in seedier alleys. This was how life was meant to be. This was the stuff of dreams.

But, this was also the true reason for his shaking hands and the pricking skin that made him think he was coming apart, atom-by-atom.

"We should ask Chuck to come," Dan said, appearing in the doorway in his typical garb of a grey cardigan and a black t-shirt. "He'll need a coffee after last night's theatrics. Not to mention the fact he woke me up yacking on the phone to Blair at all hours of the night

Eric looked up, still focusing too hard on the act of putting a button through a hole. At the suggestion that Chuck come along, Eric felt yet another swell of panic. With Chuck there, Eric would never be able to get away with denials or lies. If Dan wanted to confront him about something – on a brotherly level, before getting the parents involved – then at least Eric could appeal to Dan's natural compassion. Dan would be convinced by wide eyes and placating words. But, Chuck knew that it was bets not to trust anyone unless you had collateral.

"I've never heard Chuck 'yack' before," Eric said doubtfully, struggling to maintain his composure while giving up on the buttons. "Besides, it's – what? – nine o'clock. I wouldn't advise asking Chuck to do anything before eleven."

"I'm going to invite him," Dan said resolutely.

"It's your funeral," Eric muttered darkly, before perching lightly on the edge of his bed and focusing his attention on his shoes. "But he's going to tell you to fuck off."

Dan chuckled. "I think Chuck and I are a little passed telling each other to fuck off."

Eric shrugged as Dan frowned and went into the hallway, knocking on Chuck's door. After a brief, quiet conversation, Eric heard a dull thud and a shout of pain. Stifling a grin, Eric offered Dan a sympathetic smile when he appeared once more at the doorway.

"Did he tell you to fuck off?"

"Not in so many words," Dan said, glowering and rubbing his cheek. "But the shoe he threw at me gave me the impression that he wasn't keen on getting out of bed."

"We could ask Serena," Eric suggested, mainly in order to see Dan's reaction.

He shifted on his feet. "Are you trying to dilute my company?"

"You're like a really strong coffee," Eric said diplomatically. "I find that you're enhanced by a bit of froth and some chocolate powder."

Dan gestured behind him. "Excuse me for a moment, I have to go grab Chuck's shoe and beat you to death with it."

Eric laughed hollowly. "I wouldn't try to stop you."

Dan shot him a look, uncertain of how to react to that. Then, before he could answer, Eric had achieved the Herculean task of pulling on his trainers and the pair were ready to go to the newsstand and, if they were feeling magnanimous, to buy their family a round of coffees. Eric had his own suspicions about the brunch that Lily had planned and Rufus had ordered all of them – even Chuck – to attend. But, for his part, Dan seemed totally oblivious to the potential subject matter that may be discussed during the meal, yammering away about some book he was reading, _The Curious Case of the Dog in the Night-time_, which was written from the perspective of an autistic child. Dan was inspired by Mark Haddon, and wanted to write a story of his own from the perspective of some unusual protagonist with limited perception.

_Why not just write it from your own perspective then? _Eric thought, even as he offered Dan soft words of encouragement. As they walked towards the newsstand and the best coffee shop within walking distance (actually, there were far better coffee shops, but Dan seemed to view any coffee shop that didn't have home-made fliers and advertisements for off-Broadway plays and underground gigs as somehow unauthentic). As a result, they had to walk a considerable distance – passed the neat, processed shopfronts of the Upper East Side's eateries.

"When are you going to accept that you live on the UES now?" Eric asked mournfully as his left foot started throbbing and his anticipation of the inevitable interrogation from Dan started diminishing.

Dan glanced at him, adjusting his coat slightly and frowning. "Do I live on the Upper East Side?"

Eric offered him a crooked grin, trying to ignore the nausea that had indeed started coiling in his stomach. "You did notice where you slept last night, right?"

"Yeah," Dan said vaguely. "But I always think of it as 'Lily's place.'"

"Really?" Eric asked, surprised at the revelation.

"I suppose. I mean, when I say 'I'm going home' I usually mean the Loft. It's where I grew up. Your place is a lot nicer, don't get me wrong. But, I just don't associate it with home."

"I'm not offended," Eric shrugged. "I didn't grow up there. I still think of it as Bart's place, really. But, I guess we're setting up camp there for the foreseeable future."

"You guys have moved a lot haven't you? I had almost forgotten about how sorry Jenny and I felt about how you couldn't have a Christmas tree at the Palace."

"You were very sweet, getting that for Serena. It's a shame that you guys didn't work out." Eric paused thoughtfully, contemplating yet another blended-family brunch. "Although, I suppose that if things keep progressing with our parents, the idea of you and Serena dating does take on a few unfortunate incestuous connotations."

"Because Serena would be my step-sister," Dan said, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

"If they got married, yeah."

"Wow," Dan shook his head. "Okay, I'm officially changing the topic. No more _Flowers in the Attic_ analogies for me."

"Okay," Eric said, his fear flaring over the possibility of being exposed. "What topic do you suggest we turn our minds to now? The Palestine-Israel conflict? Bird flu?"

Dan shrugged. "I didn't have one topic in mind really. Just, you know, general chit-chat. About mutual friends. And the like."

"You want to talk about mutual friends?" Eric asked, as he handed his money over the counter. "Like who?"

"Oh you know," Dan shrugged. "Whoever. I mean, Vanessa was acting weird yesterday. She got some text message when we were outside Victrola and just disappeared into the night. Don't you think that's strange?"

Eric strained his mind to recall having any interaction whatsoever with Vanessa. He vaguely remembered that her earrings had captivated him to such an extent that she had felt uncomfortable. "I don't know. You know her better than me."

"I suppose I do. At least, I used to." Dan paused as the waitress impatiently waited for him to hand over the money for the rest of the family: a long black for Dan, a bone-dry cappuccino with two sugars for Serena, a latte for Rufus, a skim latte for Jenny, and a macchiato for Chuck, which Eric knew he only asked for because it amused him to see Dan struggle with the tiny plastic cup. "She came at me with this thing yesterday, about how she needed people to talk to at the moment and how I only talk about myself."

_Gee, _Eric mused, forcibly taking the note and passing it to the exasperated woman. _Where would she have gotten that idea_?

"I don't know," Dan said finally, "I suppose I haven't been talking to her much one-on-one. I mean, we had a bit of a fight over the whole Blair thing, when she got all holier-than-thou…"

"Wait," Eric said sharply, paying attention for the first time. "What 'whole Blair thing'?"

Dan waved his hand dismissively. "She totally misinterpreted something I'd written as indicating that I was in love with Blair."

"Are you?" Eric asked, frowning deeply.

"What?" Dan laughed. "No! I mean I don't know. I don't think so. Anyway, it's just writing, it doesn't matter - "

"It doesn't matter?" Eric asked, grabbing the flier Dan had been idly toying with out of his hands and throwing it back on the display cabinet. "You tell me that you have unresolved feelings for my adopted brother – and possibly _your_ adopted step-brother's – soul mate and you tell me it's no big deal?"

Dan gaped at him. "Eric, why are you so upset?"

Eric didn't know why he was so upset, but somehow, between the hollow dullness of the world he had woken up to this morning and the self-involved soliloquy that Dan had been performing since they left the house, Eric was fed up. "You realize that you're going to have to get over it, right? Whatever this - " Eric gestured at Dan, up and down, " – thing is. It has to stop."

"It's never started," Dan said, trying to placate him. "It's just something that Vanessa said."

"Your best friend and ex-girlfriend, who just happens to be one of the most insightful people I know," Eric muttered.

"Sure, she's those things," Dan conceded. "But to be honest, I don't know what it is. I mean, I just decided to write about her and Chuck – in fact, I wasn't even writing about her and Chuck, that was something Vanessa just assumed. I was writing about vampires - "

"Because that's so much better."

"I'm ignoring the sarcasm, although I admit that it is well-deserved," Dan shrugged. "Really, I don't think it's anything. It's natural for a writer to be particularly interested in a subject." Dan paused for a moment. "Maybe I should just talk to Chuck about it…"

"No," Eric said sharply. "_No._ That is just the last thing you should do. All that would achieve is to ruin your friendship with Chuck."

"But, I think that when things are out in the open…"

"When _what_ is out in the open?" Eric asked, exasperated. "You know that nothing is ever going to happen between you and Blair, don't you?"

Dan looked down at his feet, as if he were in Kindergarten and being scolded by a particularly severe teacher. "I know that," he said softly, causing Eric to feel a swoop of sympathy. "I don't even think I'd want anything to happen. It's just…strong feelings of a yet-to-be-determined nature."

"Don't determine them," Eric said flatly. "Just don't, Dan. You know that if you obsess over it and let it run its course in your mind – that's when it's going to become a problem. And all it will achieve is just imploding your relationships with Chuck and Blair – not to mention, Serena, who would probably feel a bit strange about the whole situation – and Vanessa, who is obviously going through something and wants your help."

For a long time, Dan stared at Eric, who stood there after his impassioned speech, chest heaving and cheeks red. "You're right."

"I am," Eric said confidently.

For a while, they stood in silence: Dan embarrassed by the dressing-down he had just received from someone several years his junior and Eric embarrassed by the strength of his response. It just terrified him, the prospect of what yet another disappointment would do to Chuck. He doubted whether Chuck would be able to withstand it. And, knowing Chuck, he would go apoplectic until Dan was no more than a grease-spot.

The silence extended between them, as they watched the steam rise and the obnoxious noise of foam being created. As the baristas finished making their coffees and Dan glumly thanked them, Eric assumed that there would be no further conversation between the two boys. But, he should have known that Dan would never be able to resist editorializing the entire situation.

"Do you ever feel like you're just not a main character in your own story?" Dan asked suddenly. "I mean, that no matter how hard you try, you just don't have what it takes to be the star in your own life?"

"Yes."

"Doesn't that make you feel…powerless? And maybe a little lame?"

"I guess so," Eric said, smiling slightly. "But it's better than being the nemesis in your own story."

"True."

They strolled down the street for a block, until Eric felt a renewed wave of guilt at the sight of Dan's sagging features.

Eric sighed. "Listen Dan, I'm sorry for how I talked to you in there."

"No you were good," Dan said with a slight smile. "But, when did you get so assertive? You were so shy when I first met you."

"Me? You hid behind a clothing rack." Eric grinned, before patting Dan on the back. "Look, I like you a lot Dan. And Chuck is like a brother to me. I just know that it would be a mistake for you to torture yourself by pining after Blair. I think we all have a lot of control over our own actions. You can't become a main character in your own life by stepping into someone else's story."

"Wow, good line. I'm going to write that down for - "

But for just what purpose Dan was going to write down that comment, Eric would never find out. Because, at that moment, Vanessa Abrams stepped out of a café door, laughing brightly and hand-in-hand with an attractive red-headed woman. Then, as Dan and Eric stood gaping, twenty metres away, Vanessa looked down shyly, before placing both hands on the woman's cheeks and kissing her squarely on the mouth.

It was incomprehensible, really, to so suddenly have your world shaken from the very foundations. But, that wasn't what made Dan stop so short and feel a dull buzzing in his head at the sight of Vanessa locked in a lover's embrace with: firstly, someone he did not know, and secondly, with a woman. What struck Dan in this moment was a strange sort of frustration that he knew only from reading books: the feeling of finding yourself suddenly jolted forward to a point in the story you could not understand, and finding that someone had torn out several pages. Somewhere between the previous scene and now, the meaning could be found, but for now, the riddle remained unsolved. And for the first time in his life, Dan felt a strangely as if he were the only one standing still in the frenzied movement of a busy crowd.

He knew that he was gaping like a gormless imbecile, but for the life of him, he couldn't locate the muscles of his mouth that just minutes earlier had been in full operation. But, even as he stood there, his heart somewhere in the back of his throat, he had to admire her; there was something magnificent about the abandon with which Vanessa performed every action. He watchers her offer the woman a luminous smile as she pulled away, and Dan felt his head ringing with unanswerable questions – how could Dan not know about this? Was it no big deal? Had she been seeing this person? Had she tried to tell him while he was wrapped up in his own drama? Did this mean they really where over?

As Vanessa walked around the corner, Eric tightened his grip on Dan's arm. Vanessa's companion was now walking directly towards them, and for some reason, Dan expected to see some sort of recognition in her eyes. But, her eyes slid passed them as if they were merely part of the scenery. That unintended slight hurt Dan more than any other: he was _important_, dammit. He was someone _significant_ in Vanessa's life. Someone who should elicit some kind of response from this woman, who presumed to embrace his best friend. Of course, it was foolish to be upset about something like that.

Eric moved his grip to Dan's shoulder and squeezed it, in what he hoped was a galvanising gesture.

"Well," Eric said wisely. "This is an interesting role reversal."[1] When Dan showed no sign that he had heard a word that Eric had said, he began pulling the older boy along by the elbow. "Come on. We need Chuck."

Shaking his head as if to clear it, Dan frowned. "Why do we need Chuck?"

"A double-life, a web of lies and lesbianism?" Eric retorted, raising his eyebrow. "Secrets like this are like oxygen to Chuck. He needs them to survive."

Dan managed to half-smile. "He probably won't even throw his shoe at me this time."

* * *

Blair had been waiting for twenty minutes by now, and was exceedingly frustrated. Tapping her foot and frowning at the door to Vanessa's door, she sent yet another text message to her friend, informing her that she would be waiting in the media labs and that Vanessa should feel free to meet her whenever she rolled out from underneath whatever garbage heap she had ended up under last night.

As she set up her laptop and used Vanessa's borrowed log in details to access the NYU database, Blair found herself glancing worriedly at the elegant watch that Chuck had sent to her that morning. Engraved in simple cursive on the back were their names: _Chuck & Blair_, _Blair & Chuck_. She couldn't help but feel a swell of emotion at the thoughtful gesture, before grinning to herself over the plan she had for him later that day when he met her at their apartment.

But first, she would need Vanessa to get this plan in motion. The few times that Blair had seen Mary Schmidt Campbell, the Dean of the Tisch School of Arts, it had been in Vanessa's company. More than once, she had commented on their documentary project, lauding their efforts at drawing attention to the work of the local shelters in protecting women who had been victims of domestic violence.

At the time, Blair had been only vaguely interested, admiring the woman's bright red suit, but otherwise focusing on mastering the editing software Vanessa had procured to her, while Prof. Campbell and Vanessa chattered away like old friends about their favourite shows and films.

"Think about it," Chuck had drawled through the phone late last night. "What are the two things that television and media geeks cannot get enough of? It's simple: boring movies and television programs and the small details that make them boring. In two words: _Mad Men_."

"The details are not boring!" Blair had protested, recalling the long regaling she had given the Dean on the historical inaccuracies of _Schindler's List_ – in particular the degree to which the film dramatized and glorified the lead character's role in liberating Jewish people repressed under the harsh rule of the Nazis. By the end of her long-winded speech, the Dean had avoided speaking to her directly, waving vaguely and trying to avoid any further history lectures.

Chuck hadn't been particularly worried about her lack of success in schmoozing with the Dean to this point; he was completely confident in her ability to steer a conversation towards the party that Chuck and Blair would be hosting in their apartment in order to assess which artistic program would be most deserving of a hefty donation from Chuck Bass's considerable sums.

"I don't want you to throw money at the program," Blair said, frowning. "I can get in on my own."

"I know that," Chuck had said smoothly. "But, when you walk in there next semester, I want everyone to know about it. Besides, even if they come to the party for the money, they'll be leaving the party having been completely charmed by Blair Waldorf." She could hear him smiling over the phone line. "They don't stand a chance."

For some reason, Chuck had been less willing to discuss the approach they should take to his entry into Columbia. Blair could understand his hesitation; last time they had broached the issue of his acceptance to college, they'd had a horrible fight in the back room of Victrola. She didn't want to give Chuck the impression that she didn't believe in his ability to get into the school on his own merits. But when she was thrumming with the excitement of planning her attempts to gain mid-year admission to Tisch, she'd taken the time to scour the Internet, formulating strategies on gaining entrance to Columbia University.

Unfortunately, after the scandalous _New Yorker_ article, the Bass name didn't carry as much currency as it once had. The company stocks were plummeting, and there was discussion that Jack Bass was leading the iconic organisation towards collapse. Mutiny was afoot, not only within the premises that had long-ago exiled Chuck, but also on the streets. Blair had seen, with a sinking heart, that the protesters from outside Victrola the night before had gained numbers, and seemed to be directing their anger towards any and everyone associated with the name Bass. While his money would make it difficult for the Dean of Tisch to reject an invitation to a _Mad Men_ themed party, especially with the promise of a hefty cheque. But, Chuck seemed to be making no overtures towards Columbia to win over the upper echelons.

In all honesty, she would have preferred to be plotting _with_ Chuck rather than in the last hours before the morning sun hollowed out the night sky, alone in the bedroom of her mother's house.

Although, being in that blue bedroom had brought to mind the long night, years ago, when she and Chuck had returned to her house after the reception in Lily and Bart's honour, in order to plot an appropriate attack on Georgina.

Blair could remember with a starting and disconcerting clarity the way she had felt, leading him by the hand (ostensibly to stop him from knocking over yet another one of her mother's vases) to the dark upper levels of the house he visited earlier that day. She hadn't known, then, that the next day he would write a speech that would bring her to very edge of a precipice: until something that she'd scarcely allowed to lend voice to, but had long desired seemed about to happen. That night, though, she had felt the first ruffling of the veil that separated them – the same barrier that would drop down between them in front of all the guests at the wedding.

(But, of course, only a week later, the moment would have passed, nothing would have changed, and the secret spell that seemed to thwart them at every turn would remain unbroken.) [2]

Nonetheless, that night all the heartbreak that came next was unreachable, and all Blair knew was the heavy beating of her heart and the surprisingly loud sound of his breath. He had taken a moment to look around the room, where they had explored each other in secret and he had (maybe) felt something stirring in him that he couldn't understand and longed to shove down – deep – into the darkest recesses of his psyche. It seemed very close to the surface that night, when she had sat at her desk and shuffled through papers, and he had settled on the edge of her bed.

It was difficult not to think of the way he had come upon her in the kitchen earlier that day. She'd been standing in the kitchen, wearing the bright yellow dress that she'd felt so self-conscious in. If only she and Serena had beaten the boys to her house, she would have surreptitiously changed. But, of course, Chuck and Nate had been there in time to see Serena passed out on the floor of Blair's elevator. With Serena in such a state, Blair's mind had instantly gone back to the time when this was a nightly occurrence for Serena, when she would be leggy and wild and dangerous, and Blair would feel matronly and bossy and squat. It was a day for picking up old characters that had long since evaporated. But, the instant she saw Nate's hard expression giving way to concern at the sight of Serena, she had found that the pain was less, that she had changed somehow, in a way she couldn't explain, but blamed on _him. _

_He _sat there in his ridiculous outfit: they matched, then. But, instead of warming her heart, it seemed as if he were mocking her for the ugly dress that had simply been the nearest thing when she had gone out into the New York night to search for Serena. As Nate and Chuck lifted Serena to her feet and climbed the stairs to her bedroom, Nate had looked over his shoulder at her, frowning hard.

"She was out like this all night?"

"I only just found her."

"You went out in the middle of the night?" Chuck had asked.

He hadn't even said it in a concerned way, but rather in his perfectly disaffected voice, as if he couldn't have cared in the least. There was an awkward silence between them, until Serena had started wretching and Nate had lugged her towards the toilet in Blair's ensuite. But, Chuck lingered for a moment on the threshold, glancing at her.

"I would have come with you," he said simply.

It was this intimation that had made Blair's stomach tighten and had caused her to run downstairs to the refuge of the kitchen. She had barked at Dorota to get out and had started fussing over the coffee machine that she scarcely knew how to use. Her hands shook as the images of Chuck filled her mind: the way things had been and how close they had stood to something new and terrifying. So, when he appeared at the door, she had been convinced that he was a spirit she had conjured, and for a moment she hadn't guarded her expression.

Something in it must have given her away. Angry at the way he made her come undone, she had spat at him. "What are you doing down here? You're supposed to be helping Serena."

They both noticed that she was spilling more coffee than she was making. But he was kind (for once) and didn't comment. "Listening to Serena re-enact her favourite scenes from _the Exorcist_ is hardly a two-person job."

"So you decided to come down and annoy me?"

"Something like that."

And just like that, he had come up behind her and trapped her between his hands, not allowing her to escape but not touching her so as to make her start.

She had even tried to protest: "What do you think - "

But the heartbreaking tone of his voice, when he asked her not to say anything was enough to silence her protests. Of their own accord, her eyes had closed and he had traced a line – his name? Her name? An apology? – on her arm and she had sighed in a thoroughly intimate way. But, she didn't waver, standing completely still so as not to inadvertently touch him. It was, without doubt, an extraordinarily erotic moment, until Nate had entered and reminded them that there feelings were something be ashamed of.[3]

But that night, Chuck gave no sign that he intended to do anything other than scheme, and she had been inordinately disappointed, convinced that he had been toying with her in the kitchen – that he had won and she had lost. She barked instructions at him and sat up straight in the black dress that she'd chosen to accentuate her back. It was a struggle to resist the urge to tear it off – to run into the bathroom and lock the door.

"Blair," he'd said suddenly, in that intense tone of voice that gave her shivers and made her feel more vulnerable than anyone should be.

"What?" she'd responded sharply. "Do you need me to draw a diagram?"

"I'm capable of following the plan, thank you," he'd smirked. "But I was wondering whether it was strictly necessary for you to sit there like an uptight choir-master."

"Better to keep some distance so I don't catch anything."

He hadn't seemed particularly bothered, and Blair knew that he had noticed her goosebumps this morning.

"I think it's safe to say that anything you were going to catch – you've already caught it."

"I've been sanitized."

For a moment, she felt a momentary swell of regret. He was avoiding her eyes, staring at the picture that sat next to her bed. It was of the four of them – the (what had she called it?) Non-Judging Breakfast Club. "I would have thought you'd throw that picture out."

Blair felt the sudden need to protect the picture, climbing to her feet and hurrying over to pick it up – as if it might catch fire under his gaze.

"Why?"

"Because it's gone," Chuck said simply.

"It's not gone," Blair said, cradling the picture against her chest, and noticing for the first time how he still couldn't look at her.

"Nate hates me. You hate me. Serena…well Serena's pretty much a felon, so I guess that doesn't matter, does it?"

Blair couldn't help but smile. "You're a felon, too. I've bailed you out myself." When he didn't smile, she found herself sitting down next to him, about a meter between them. "Something on your mind, Bass?"

He bit his lip. "Nothing at all."

"Liar," she said softly, allowing the picture to fall on her lap, so that their happy, innocent faces smiled up at them. "You're not as good at hiding things as you think."

Finally, he looked at her, not smiling – his eyes as dark as she had ever seen them. "I'm great at hiding things, Waldorf."

Framing her hands around the picture, she sighed. "You're right. You are." With that, she stood up and dropped the picture on her desk, so that it clattered loudly in the quiet room. For a moment, she stood at her desk, her hands pressed against the surface of the wood. She almost wished that he would come up behind her, the way he had that morning. But, it seemed that there was going to be no repeat performance and Blair found herself inordinately disappointed.

"I wouldn't take it back, though," Chuck said finally, while her back was still turned towards him.

"You wouldn't?" she said in a business-like tone, as if it didn't matter in the least.

"Not one fucked-up, agonizing minute of it."

She had studied the edge of her desk, wondering whether the chips had always been there. Mainly, she had tried to distract herself so that she could say the most terrifying thing she could think of.

"Neither would I."

With that, she picked up her notebook and her laptop and sat on the bed opposite him. Crossing her legs primly and started typing on keyboard. "I think that playing the parental angle is a good idea."

She hadn't dared look at him as she spoke. And soon enough, both were too caught up in their plots to discuss the confusing, frustrating state of their relationship. Eventually, Blair realized that they were merely delaying the inevitable; with each yawn and surreptitious glance at the clock, they drew closer to the moment of decision. To her chagrin, Blair blinked first – all but horizontal on the bed with her eyes drooping with exhaustion.

"It's late." There was a loaded pause as he waited for some indication of where this conversation was going. "Too late for you to go home, I suppose."

Blair had hoped that her voice was as casual as she had intended. In all honesty, when she opened her eyes to look at him across the bed, she had been nervous that she would see some hint of triumph or amusement in his eyes. But, his face was serious in the lamplight, and she knew that for once he would not make fun of her.

"So I'll stay here," he whispered, so that she imagined that he could have been speaking to her in the dream.

"Okay."

Blair bit her lip slightly, wondering for a moment what he would do if she were to reach out and kiss him: to touch his chest in the space where it was exposed by the open buttons of his pink shirt. Judging by the look on his face, he would do nothing to stop her. But, she knew – knew with some vague certainty that filled her stomach with nerves – that if she were to reach out to fill the gap between them then they would fall back on those same frustrating patterns that had led them to this unspeakably depressing state of longing and distance.

"Okay," he said in that same low voice. For a moment, their eyes locked and Blair felt the familiar sensation of falling and flying that had always seemed to come upon her during those private moments with him. He frowned seriously, as if trying to make sense of a certain angle of light across her face. Then, with a slow wonderment – as if he were convinced that at any moment she might punch him in the nose - he leaned in slightly.

She found herself closing her eyes and moistening her lips for the inevitable feeling of his frenzied kisses. It wouldn't fix anything – and they both knew it. But, for once Blair found herself not caring. What did it matter if they never got fixed. Perhaps they were not meant to _work_.

_To hell with it,_ she had thought, before surrendering to the moment.

But, suddenly, he pulled back as if scolded. Opening her eyes – irritated and embarrassed – she found him scrutinizing her face with a deep frown on his face. It was as if he had divined what she was thinking: as if she had spoken aloud and he did not like the conclusion she had come to.

"I suppose you want me to sleep on the floor," he said stiffly, pulling his suit jacket up and throwing it onto the carpet.

"Yeah," Blair said quickly, appreciating his averted eyes as she felt her cheeks flaming. "Of course."

She was too embarrassed to look at him – let alone go through the torture of changing out of her dress and into some inappropriate nightdress. Closing her eyes against the bitter humiliation of his rejection, she allowed her breath to deepen – to even out – in what she believed was a reasonable facsimile of sleep. She could hear him moving about on the floor, struggling to get comfortable. He let out a deep sigh, before finally lying still. In the peaceful silence that followed, Blair fancied that she might just fall asleep as she was, on top of the covers.

She was somewhere between sleeping and wakefulness, when she felt the bed sink down slightly, as he moved back into the position he had been before. Her fake slumber must have convinced him, because she felt his hand reach out (shaking slightly) to touch her cheek.

She would have liked him to say something – the way people always seemed to in the movies. But, of course, this was real life, and people didn't tell their deepest secrets to those who may or may not be unconscious. When he lay down next to her, allowing her warm breath to pass over his face, she couldn't help but nestle closer into the covers. She heard him let out a small snort of amusement, before he moved closer to her.

Half-expecting him to call her out on her faking, she was surprised to feel the warmth of his arms around her waist: his hand tracing patterns on her bare back and the smell of his aftershave filling her brain and befuddling her senses. Well aware that giving any sign that she was awake would break the spell, Blair shifted slightly, moulding herself more closely against him in what she hoped was a convincing imitation of sleep. Then, wishing that she could force him to feel just as unsettled and alert as she was, she draped one of her legs over him, stifling a grin at the sound of his gasp and the way his hand froze on her back.

"Blair?" he asked softly. "Are you awake?"

She knew that if she gave any sign that she was just as awake and alert as he was, that they would throw restraint to the winds. So, she pretended to sleep. And he pretended not to notice the way her breath would hitch with each rotation his hand made on her bare skin.

Of course, now things were different. The coy dance of their school days was now no more than the stuff of memory. When they plotted now, they did it with their bodies entwined in bed, or soaking in a luxurious bath.

It was no wonder that Blair was inordinately frustrated at Vanessa's tardiness – plotting was just _better_ with Chuck. She was about to surrender to her desire to send him a text message to ask how brunch was going, when a familiar voice cut through the chattering of the other undergraduates.

"You summoned me?" Vanessa asked wryly, standing before Blair.

"Nice outfit," Blair said with a wry smile. "I liked it yesterday too."

A strange guilty look passed over Vanessa's face as she shuffled on her feet, pulling the strap of her bag taught against her chest. "Yeah, I was…I mean…that was…I was with a friend…"

Blair rolled her eyes. "You were hooking up with someone. Memo received. Just spare me the details of Dan's tearful love making to the soundtrack of a suicidal Elliott Smith."

"I wasn't with Dan," Vanessa said quickly, frowning at her. "Why would you think I was with Dan?"

Blair shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I just assumed that after Chuck and I left you guys that there were limited options for pairings. It seemed more likely that you would hook up with Dan than…" Blair thought for a moment before chuckling to herself, "Serena!"

For a suspended minute, Vanessa looked at Blair, sitting so primly in her cream dress, with her overcoat thrown carelessly over the back of a nearby chair. It was strange to think how up until quite recently, really, Vanessa had viewed Blair as a sociopathic enemy – not be trusted. Somewhere in the time that had passed between then and now, it seemed as if Blair had become her friend.

Would she still remain Vanessa's friend if she could find a way to tell her what had transpired last night?

It was still so new, so subversive and experimental, that Vanessa did not quite know what to make of it herself. Surely the worst thing she could do would be to prematurely voice these strange thoughts that had been entering her head recently: the strange connections she had been forging with people that Blair would never approve of – even setting aside any lifestyle choice. Telling Dan was one thing, although in the cool light of day, she was beginning to think that the idea of telling _him_ was lunacy in itself.

"Are you going to sit down?" Blair asked, crossly, already sliding her computer across the table so Vanessa could see the latest changes she had made to their video project.

Pulling out a seat, Vanessa frowned at her. No matter how many hours they spent together in the labs at NYU, Vanessa still wasn't sure exactly how Blair would react. And surely, the way that the first person she articulated these things to reacted would determine how she told anyone else.

What would she even tell Blair? That over the last few weeks, her healthy sexual appetite had expanded to encompass people from her own gender? She knew though, that something was different about this. Those men who walked in and out of her dorm room – who Chuck had rolled his eyes over when he had come to see her when he had first dropped out of Princeton – had been faceless. They had left her with a lingering sense of worthlessness. She had thought that her promiscuity was just getting slightly more diverse. Until, a few weeks ago, when red-headed Lara had shown her into the photographic studio where she printed all of her snapshots. There, under the fierce gloom of the red light, Lara had smiled sweetly.

"I love seeing you smile."

And then, before Vanessa really had a chance to react, she realized that she was _kissing_ this girl that she knew only in passing from her dorms.

There was nothing to tell, really. She shouldn't mention anything to Blair. Her anger at Dan yesterday was merely the product of years of confiding everything in him. It would be far simpler – until she knew precisely what _this_ was – to continue as she had always done with Blair.

"So," Vanessa said finally, smiling at her friend. "Do you want to explain to me what was so urgent that you didn't even let me get changed first?"

Blair smiled widely, and Vanessa realized that she knew that look. It was a look that told her she was about to get embroiled in a Blair Waldorf scheme. And for once, she didn't mind in the least.

"Vanessa," Blair said coyly. "Do you by any chance like _Mad Men?_"

"I _love_ that show," Vanessa enthused, perking up.

"Chuck is a genius," Blair muttered, before offering Vanessa a sunny smile. "You and I are going to go stalk the Dean of Tisch."

Vanessa smiled, shaking her head. "Whatever you say, Blair."

* * *

" - And we saw her kissing," Dan paused for dramatic effect. "A girl."

Chuck looked at him impassively.

"That's right," Dan repeated. "A _girl_. As in of the same gender as Vanessa."

Chuck rubbed the centre of his forehead as if he had spontaneously developed a throbbing headache. "I understand what a girl is, Humphrey."

Dan exchanged an uncertain look with Eric. Eric shrugged, before sinking down onto the couch opposite Chuck's armchair in the living room. They were biding their time, waiting for brunch to formally begin, and Chuck appeared to be reading a Sotheby's catalogue, of all things.

"What Dan's trying to say," Eric said calmly. "Is that we think Vanessa might be a lesbian."

Chuck looked up at that, offering Dan a smug grin. "So you turned her, did you?"

"What? No!"

"That's got to be tough on a man's ego," Chuck said, enjoying needling the already frayed nerves of his friend.

"This has nothing to do with me," Dan said quickly.

"That's right," Chuck said, peering over the page he was perusing. "So why are you telling me?"

Dan glanced at Eric. "We thought that this might be something you were interested in. Obviously forgetting that your interests now include only antique furniture."

"Don't get me wrong," Chuck said, allowing the catalogue to fall to his lap. "If you had some kind of video of something a little bit more interesting than kissing, I'd watch a bit. But I fail to see why this is such a big deal. Unless…" He paused, a strange expression passing over his face.

"You trailed off a bit there," Eric contributed, sipping his coffee.

"Unless, what?" Dan asked quickly.

Chuck set the catalogue on the elegant, four-legged table that sat to the left of the armchair he occupied. Crossing his legs, he adjusted the immaculate grey fabric over his thighs, leaning one elbow on the side of the chair. Taking in the fine labels of his white shirt and the silky darkness of his cravat, Dan felt suddenly exceedingly shabby.

"Unless you are jealous," he said finally.

"What? I'm not _jealous_. I don't get jealous. I'm just…It seems wrong that someone's best friend can suddenly turn around and have this huge, life-changing thing…"

"Maybe it's not life-changing," Chuck said, almost gently. "Maybe she's just experimenting. Anyway, who cares? She'll tell you if and when she decides she wants to. If you're not jealous, then I really don't see what this has to do with any of us."

Dan was inexplicably disappointed by Chuck's reaction to his gossip. Slumping back into the couch next to Eric, he stared moodily at the open fire that Chuck read next to. Absorbed in the sight of the flames moving as if they were driven by some irrepressible desire to be in motion, Dan didn't notice the way that Chuck looked at him. If he had been aware, he would accurately identified the emotion on Chuck's face as one of sympathy.

"Was she hot?" Chuck said, affecting at least some level of his usual enthusiasm.

"Red-head," Eric contributed, somewhat doubtfully. "Taller than Vanessa."

"Yeah, she was hot," Dan confirmed. "Kind of Emma Stone-ish. But taller. And lighter hair."

"You really need to get some ass at that college of yours," Chuck said contemplatively, before returning to his reading material.

Before Dan had the chance to defend himself, the familiar ding of the elevator alerted them to the fact that the rest of the extended family had returned to the apartment. Arms brimming with pastries from the neighbourhood bakery in Brooklyn ("Best croissants in New York, no doubt.") and with Rufus busying himself at the stove, cooking eggs, ("Let's give the kitchen staff a break.") Chuck found himself suddenly overwhelmed by the domesticity of the scene.

He found himself wandering away from the scene, drawn to the more isolated corners of the room. He noticed that Eric, too, seemed to be withdrawn from the action. He stood next to the stairway, watching Serena chattering away with Lily and Jenny – talking about how when she returned to Brown, she would be picketing one of her Professors until he agreed to stop wasting paper by printing their class-notes.

Chuck found himself wondering whether Eric found Serena's affectations of a social conscience as trying as he did. Eric had always been inclined to viewing the rest of them with rose-coloured glasses. But, recently, there was something more astute about Eric. Something a little bit cruel and a little bit cynical. It was as if he were trying to be more like Chuck.

Chuck had just decided to talk to Eric when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It was, as he'd predicted, Blair. Chuck smiled when he read her text: _You're a genius! Vanessa came through and the Dean's in! We have a party to organize. Love, Bxo._

He was so taken by the prospect of a Blair Waldorf surprise, that he scarcely noticed Rufus coming up behind him. It wasn't until the man clasped his shoulder that Chuck became aware that he was there.

In spite of himself, Chuck found himself flinching away from the unannounced physical contact. Seeing Rufus's crestfallen face, Chuck mustered a reassuring half smile. That token gesture was of course enough to inspire some heavy-duty beaming from Rufus. It was so easy to please the man; Chuck sometimes found himself viewing the ease with which Rufus handed out praise with a degree of suspicion. But, with time – and the concerted effort of the Humphrey patriarch – Chuck found himself warming to the man. Although, Rufus would never have guessed it.

Now, the man seemed nervous, toying with one of his guitar picks (a nervous gesture, Chuck had learned) and flicking his eyes towards the stairs that led up to Lily's bedroom, the study, and various other rarely-used rooms.

"Chuck," Rufus said, shifting on the balls of his feet. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Yes," Chuck said simply, before raising an eyebrow, waiting for Rufus to continue.

"Great. Okay. Should we go upstairs?"

"I don't know Rufus," he drawled with an amused smirk. "People may talk."

But, even as he offered his patently smartass response, he found himself leading the way up the stairs, wondering what it was that was making Rufus so uncomfortable and jittery. When they reached the hallway, Chuck arranged himself against the wall and looked at Rufus expectantly.

"No – the study. If you don't mind."

Chuck shrugged. "As you wish."

When they entered Bart's old office (now euphemistically referred to as 'the study'), Chuck was surprised when Rufus shut the door. For a man who basically lived in a glorified warehouse, he was awfully antsy about privacy. Chuck noted that Lily hadn't changed anything about the study; it was clearly still Bart's domain. As such, Chuck found himself feeling a strange sense of proprietorship over the space. He sauntered over to the fireplace, lifting up a small box to expose a hidden key, which he used to unlock the small cupboard that had been there since before Bart's death.

Without asking whether Rufus wanted anything to drink, he poured both of them a small glass of Scotch. Rufus didn't even glance pointedly at his watch or chastise Chuck for suggesting that they drink at such an early hour. Rather, Rufus gratefully downed the exceptionally expensive liquid before settling on one of the couches.

"What did you want to talk about?" Chuck asked, when he was seated in the armchair where Bart used to sit.

Rufus took a deep, galvanizing breath. "Well. It probably won't surprise you to learn that things between Lily and I are very serious."

"I had noticed."

"Yes," Rufus said, nodding and looking like he was hankering after another glass. "Well, a few days ago, I asked her to marry me."

There was a loaded silence.

"I see," Chuck said, sipping his drink and eyeing the Tai Chi shoes that Rufus was wearing. Last time he had seen Rufus, the man had even shown him the long wooden sword he liked to take to the park when he performed his meditation. Chuck had just barely managed to maintain a straight face, although when he caught Blair's eye he had nearly lost it entirely. "Well, then. I suppose congratulations are in order."

Rufus' face brightened at that, and Chuck dutifully returned to the cupboard, opting to bring the entire bottle over to where they were seated. After refreshing Rufus' glass, Chuck sat back down.

"So is there any particular reason that you're telling me this?"

"You're a part of this family," Rufus said quickly. "Of course we'd tell you. We were going to tell you sooner, but Lily didn't want to interfere with your plans to tell Blair about the apartment."

Chuck frowned slightly, still not quite understanding why he had been singled out. "I apologise for the delay."

"No, no," Rufus said quickly. "That's not what I meant. I'm just saying that I wanted to take you aside to talk to you before we told everyone else."

Chuck felt a swoop of misgivings. "You're not going to…adopt me or anything are you? I mean, don't get me wrong, I appreciate the sentiment, but I think we should just keep our relationship in the friend-zone."

Rufus let out a bark of laughter. "No, no. I don't think you need _another_ father thrown into the mix. I suppose I just - " Rufus looked down, as if gathering his thoughts. "I wanted to see whether you were okay with it."

That, he had not been expecting. "With you and Lily getting married?"

"You're the closest thing to a son that Bart ever had," Rufus explained bashfully, nursing his drink but looking at Chuck seriously. "And I don't want you to think that Lily and my decision changes anything about your place in this family. Also, I don't want you to think that I'm colonizing your…I mean Bart's space. I have asked Lily to move into the loft, so I assume she'll put this place on the market and you will get your due share - "

It was a rare occasion for Chuck Bass to be truly surprised, but he could honestly say that he hadn't been expecting this conversation. He settled his fingers on the bridge of his nose, noting as he did that Rufus trailed off. In moments like this, the showman in Chuck longed to take a minute, to allow the audience to pause and draw breath, wondering how he was going to react. When he was younger, he had spent hours finely honing the responses in his playbook: so that every gesture was rehearsed. But, at this instant, he needed the silence to gather his thoughts.

He stood up, walking away from the intimate scene with Rufus. Staring out the window at the tiny figures passing below, Chuck sighed heavily. "Does it both you, the thought of living in this house?"

The extended silence was answer enough.

Chuck found himself turning around, leaning lightly against the window-frame. "The loft has three bedrooms," he said slowly. "Eric and Jenny still have some time left before they finish school. Serena and Dan are at college and will probably be staying with you when they visit New York."

"We could make arrangements…"

Chuck held up his hand. "You should live here, Rufus. I mean, decide whatever you want. But, don't think that you have to move because I need my "share" of the profits. You're a better man than Bart ever was and you make Lily happier than I've ever seen her." His gaze was distant, remembering the last time he was summoned into this office. "Maybe you can dispel some of the bad vibes in this fucking mausoleum. Make it into a record studio or Zen garden, or whatever it is you Brooklyn folk like."

Rufus looked around the room, as if trying to imagine it as something other than the central nervous system of Bart Bass' surveillance.

"Just," Chuck said suddenly. "If you decide to make it into sun-powered stove room, or whatever. I'd like to keep the liquor cabinet."

Rufus chuckled. "I couldn't think of any better home for it than in close proximity to you."

Chuck sat back down on the couch, noting that Rufus' shoulders had relaxed. Obviously, he had been concerned about Chuck's response to the news. He could practically see the Elder Humphrey mentally ticking 'tell Chuck' from his to-do list. Judging by Lily's previous weddings, there would be a fairly long to-do list following that minor point. Chuck found himself leaning forward, regarding Rufus carefully.

"So," he said finally. "You asked Lily to marry you."

Rufus narrowed his eyes. "Uh. Yes. That was what the ten minute conversation we just had was about."

"Yes," Chuck said, still leaning forward with a focused look on his face. "But, _how_ did you ask Lily to marry you."

Surprise gave way to a knowing grin as Rufus casually crossed his legs. "You're just asking? No particular reason?"

Chuck laughed derisively, avoiding Rufus's eyes and sitting back in the chair as if he were embarrassed at having been caught out asking such questions. "Of course not. Please."

A silence descended upon them, as Chuck tried to pretend that he wasn't thinking of ways of burrowing out of the room.

"I knew I'd never be able to compete, you know," Rufus said suddenly. "I mean, with Bart and all those husbands she's had. They had the rings, the tandem-skydiving trips over the Eiffel Tower - "

"I'm pretty sure you're not allowed to skydive over the Eiffel Tower, but your point is well taken."

Rufus rolled his eyes. "So I realized that the most important thing to bear in mind is that you need to find a creative way to do it – a way that makes it truly personal and romantic." He snorted. "Also, something that she would be excited to tell her friends about. Women are all about the story-telling."

"But," Chuck said quietly, lost in thought. "How did you know it was the time to…you know?"

Rufus shrugged helplessly. "You know. Sometimes you think that the words are just going to burst out of you at any moment. But I suppose that the important thing to remember is that marriage is a partnership – a true partnership. It's about compromise and putting other people's needs ahead of your own. So I suppose, the moment you realize that this person's happiness is more important to you than your own – no, that's not right. I suppose it's when you realize that your happiness depends on them being happy too." Rufus smiled to himself. "Of course, that's just my opinion. Love is different for everyone."

"So really it's all a crap shoot," Chuck muttered darkly. "You never know if it's the right time."

"You're a complex guy, Chuck," Rufus said gently. "Being tied to another person, having that weight and that responsibility – as well as all the joy that comes with it – is not a natural state for you. So, if I were you, I'd trust that feeling. If you find someone who challenges you and magnifies you and makes you want to just…be there. For everything. Then that's unique. And you should hold onto it."

"So is that what you said to Lily?"

Rufus frowned to himself. "No…I mainly just played Lincoln Hawk and got her stoned until she had to agree to marry me."

Chuck let out a loud bark of laughter. "You know, Rufus. Don't tell anyone, but I think I'm starting to like you."

"Me too, Chuck," Rufus said with a smile. "Me too."

* * *

When the doors of the elevator opened at the penthouse level, Chuck experienced a strange moment of dislocation. It was not a disconcerting feeling, but rather a strange, soothing pull towards the door of the apartment that he and Blair would be moving into next week. It was a thrill of anticipation, really, at the knowledge that come next week, this would be his home: there was a line drawn at the front door, and all that was outside would have to stop and request entry. On the other side of the door, he and Blair could languish, reveling in the _inwardness_ of a home that belonged just to them.

He knew, somehow, as the key slid into the lock, that she had beaten him there. Judging by the comfortable silence of the entrance, she had been there for some time.

"Blair?" he called into the dark hallway, before feeling his way to the dramatic centerpiece of the apartment: the archways surrounding an outdoor courtyard – a rarity not only in New York but particularly in the crowded Upper East Side. But when he entered the sweeping, elegant room, he was confronted with a surprising sight: two large, warm lamps were illuminating on an armchair in the centre of the room. On either side of the armchair, there were long racks of clothes. Immediately, Chuck's mind formed an association between the costume racks and the lighting: surely this was part of the project she and Vanessa were working on. Or perhaps, she was working on new material for her NYU application. Glancing over his shoulder, he found that his suspicions were confirmed; there was a video camera standing on a tripod directly before the armchair. Next to it, was another chair, where assumedly Blair had been seated during filming earlier that day.

Chuck pulled off his jacket and threw it on the back of some of the other armchairs that were arranged haphazardly around the room (they had yet to formally start decorating, but he knew that she and Eleanor had purchased some pieces that day. Chuck was slightly disappointed that he'd missed the filming; although he would have found the presence of other people in their still pristine and private apartment slightly irritating, he would have loved to see Blair in her assertive and bossy element.

"Blair? Are you interviewing people in here? Is Vanessa here?"

Perhaps he had been mistaken; perhaps she wasn't yet home - although it seemed strange to see these lamps burning so brightly without anyone being present.

"Blair…I'm about to get naked. If any of your minions are here they're going to cop an eyeful." Chuck shrugged, turning around to examine the camera. He reached out to touch it, feeling strangely like a young schoolboy about to defy an ironclad rule.

"That's it…I'm taking off my clothes," he called distractedly, mainly for his own amusement.

"Well don't let me stop you."

Chuck jumped; he had almost convinced himself that his instincts had been incorrect about her beating him here. When he looked around, possibly to chastise her for not responding to his calls, he found that he had suddenly lost the power of speech.

It hit him in the middle of his body; there, in the light cast by the lamps she had 'borrowed' from NYU, Blair stood in a flimsy robe.

"I called out," he said lamely, swallowing hard.

"I'm sorry."

"What are you doing?"

As he watched, she smiled mysteriously, before turning around and fiddling with her iPod. He was surprised by her song choice; usually Blair favoured the more pop orientated anthems. Today, though, she seemed to have selected a more suggestive, intense musical repertoire.

Turning once more to face him, she smiled again – that infuriating, arousing smile of hers that didn't give anything away. Then, with slow, purposeful actions, she opened her robe and allowed it to fall to the ground.

"What?" he said finally.

She almost laughed at that, but managed to maintain her serious façade. "I didn't say anything."[4]

"Oh, right," he said, still eying the contours of her body in her corset and underpants, marveling at the beauty and purity of her body: the white flame of Blair revealing itself so that he could touch her. There was nothing more erotic to him.[5]

"Chuck," she said in a near-whisper. "Could you turn on the camera for me?"

In his eagerness to obey her commands, he found himself fumbling with camera, searching for the on button. When he finally managed to turn it on, he grinned to himself, enjoying the sight of real-life Blair mirrored on the small screen of the camera.

"Is this going to be my directorial debut?" he asked, adjusting the lens so that every inch of her was visible.

"More of a pick-your-own adventure," she said, grinning wickedly and gesturing at the costume racks that surrounded her. "So, take your pick."

The sheer magnitude of the multitude of fantasies she had provided for him overwhelmed him, before a worrying thought overcame him. "There's no fourth wall in this film, right?"

He could have sworn that her on-air persona dropped slightly as she bit back another smile. "You're the director. You can do anything you want."

"Well in that case," he said, stepping out from behind the camera and striding over to where she stood, exposed for posterity. When he reached her, he couldn't decide what part of her to touch first. Luxuriating in the torment, he ran his hands over the outline of her body without touching it, grinning at the sight of her eyes rolling back into her head. Leaning close to her, he kissed her on that sensitive spot, just beneath her ear.

"So what's it going to be, Chuck?" she gasped, grabbing onto his arms as he blew on the place he had just kissed.

He pulled back, smiling down at her. "How about I play Chuck and you play Blair?"

"That's enough for you?"

"It's everything I could want."

With that, all restraint was lost as she clawed at his clothes and threw them onto the ground around them, before maneuvering him onto the armchair. As he sat, staring up at her in awe, his eyes flicked to the nearest costume.

"What do you say that you play Chuck, and I play… school-aged Blair?"

His eyes followed hers - falling on the same school uniform she used to run around in at Constance, slowly driving him insane with desire. Back then he never would have imagined that Blair Waldorf would volunteer to make a sex tape with him.

"I think I'm really going to enjoy your interest in film," he said, as a wicked smile grew on his lips, contemplating the library of films that they could put together over the years to come.

When she put on her old uniform for him, straddling him on the armchair under the watchful eye of her video camera, it occurred to him that they were finally moving forward. The old fears and insecurities that had coloured their childhoods were being consumed by the promise of tomorrow. In these short few months since he and Blair had uncovered each other's secrets – hers, that her dream did not quite live up to its reality, and his, that he would throw anything away to protect her – they had passed into a surprising, new stage.

As his hands travelled up her old school skirt, he felt as if he had finally stumbled upon life – the sort of life that he had only read about. What liars poets were. They made had made him think that love was sentimentality. But in this moment, all those beautiful words, arranged elegantly on the page could never live up to the piercing, consuming, overwhelming sensuality that he felt when he pressed his body to Blair's.

In short, it was safe to say that their apartment was well-christened.

* * *

[1] Eric is referring to when Dan saw him kissing Asher on a street corner. Eric and Dan are a new interaction for me. I don't usually have them on scene together.

[2] Very loosely based on Herman Hesse, "Narziss and Goldmund."

[3] It's not your imagination – this was a scene from _The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair_. I thought it would be enjoyable to see it from Blair's perspective.

[4] A moment stolen from _The West Wing._

[5] Based in part on D.H. Lawrence, _Lady Chatterley's Lover_. The final paragraph is also based on a key scene in the novel.

* * *

A/N: Chapter Fourteen will be called _Mad Men_. Unfortunately, I'm about to commence exams, so chances are there will be a little delay. I hope that this chapter started up the plot again; I know that last chapter was a bit speculative. Next chapter will really get things going again, in the lead up for the big finale! Thank you again for your wonderful reviews.


	14. Author's Note

_Disclaimer: This chapter is not to be considered part of Lightness and Weight and will be deleted before the next chapter is posted. _

**A/N: WE INTERRUPT OUR CURRENT PROGRAMMING FOR...A NEW STORY IDEA**

Sorry if I got you excited by the promise of a new chapter; unfortunately my exam timetable is preventing me from making any progress with _Lightness and Weight_ until at least 11 November.

In a few of your reviews, some of you have indicated your dissatisfaction with the current state of Chuck and Blair on the show. I have to admit that I feel the same way. So, it has made me wonder whether I could write a Season 3/4 version of Chuck and Blair that didn't make me want to gag.

Then, the other day, as I was reading one of those "Blair loses her memory" stories, I was struck by an idea. What if Chuck were to be the one to wake up without a memory of the last few years? How would a Pilot-vintage Chuck respond to the current situation of Chuck and Blair? How would that Chuck make sense of the news that he had been in a relationship with Blair that had, quite simply imploded.

Would this be something you would be interested in reading? I was planning on bowing out of fandom after I finish _Lightness and Weight_, but for some reason, my train rides to work have been consumed by teasing out the edges of this idea.

If you think it would not be interesting, I might just leave it at _Lightness and Weight_. It has been a really rewarding enterprise – largely because of all your amazing reviews. Do let me know if you would be interested in the idea I'm floating; the reason I keep writing fan-fiction is because I relish the fact you guys seem to enjoy it!

~ Nyx


	15. Chapter 14: Mad Men, Part I

A/N: First of all, thank you so much for your support of _Between the Shadow and the Soul. _I have been so pleased with the reception of it that I felt I was neglecting _Lightness and Weight. _I can assure you that this is still my number one priority, so I have given you a long chapter – complete with a flashback to Carter/Chuck's days of friendship, and a _Mad Men_ party! Carter's story will be slightly AU to fit in with the story. Hope you like it…it really is an exceptionally long chapter! So, I've decided to fit it into two sections, uploaded at the same(ish) time.

**_Lightness and Weight_**

**Sequel to _The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair_**

**Chapter Fourteen: **_Mad Men (Part One)_

"This devise isn't a spaceship, it is a time machine. It goes backwards and forwards…it takes us to a place where we ache to go again. It's not called the wheel, it's call the carousel. It let's us travel the way a child travels – around and around, and back home again, to a place where we know we are loved."

Don Draper, _Mad Men._

_

* * *

_

Chuck couldn't say with absolute certainty how it was he had ended up outside ABC Carpet & Home at 10a.m. the following morning, his arms brimming with shopping bags. He had awoken slowly, curled up on the floor of the apartment, blinking into the low light and smiling at the recollection of the show he and Blair had put on for her video camera.

The smile soon melted away, however, when Chuck finally registered the fact that he was alone on the ground, covered only by a blanket, with all the detritus of the previous evening packed away. He noted that the video camera was now safely stored in its case, and he wondered idly what Blair had done with the tape.

On one of the few tables they now had, Chuck saw a thin sheet of paper, covered with Blair's immaculate penmanship.

_Chuck – _

_Gone shopping for party. I have left the list of things for you to pick up, thanks so much for offering. _(Chuck strained his mind to remember whether he had in fact offered, but so much of the previous night was a blur of pleasure that for all he knew she had extracted a promise for him to donate his kidney to the event.) _I wanted to wake you up before I left, but you were out cold. Perhaps once the party preparations are over, we can have a screening of your directorial debut._

_Love,_

_B_

Chuck couldn't find it in him to mind that she was bribing him with her promises – so tantalizing was the promised reward. Perusing the list, however, Chuck had found his eyebrows knitting together. It seemed as if Blair intended their _Mad Men_ party to be as authentic as possible.

Now, many hours and much shopping later, Chuck glanced at his reflection in the shop window: the odd image of Chuck Bass performing such a domestic and mundane act as shopping for decorations for a party was strangely jarring. He had found himself exchanging ironic nods with the other men who prowled through the shops, following after girlfriends and wives in their quests for the ideal piece of furniture. Chuck had never been one to feel a sense of camaraderie with his fellow man, so when he stopped and looked at himself in the reflective surface – slightly frosted in the late November chill – he found himself examining not only his physical appearance, but the unreliable traitor that was his inner voice.

Surely, if there had been any danger of Chuck making a run from the domesticity of his daily life, it would be now: preparing to move in with his girlfriend, running errands for the party they would be hosting, feeling the strange connectedness that came with growing roots.

But, with a sense of strange relief, Chuck found that he actually _liked _this image of himself. He liked the feeling of being useful, of being depended on. He even liked the feeling of the soft string of one of his shopping bags. It had not even occurred to him to send Arthur out to go shopping for him; he knew how Blair thought, he knew that he would need to personally review every item to ensure that it lived up to her standards.

It was undeniable; domesticity was starting to suit him. It seemed a natural progression, rather than a horrific compromise. And the thought of Blair's determined face with her clipboard brought a strange grin to his face.

_You belong to me. _

For the first time, Chuck found himself thinking of her not as something he had stolen, something he had pilfered from Nate. Instead, he found himself lifting his chin with pride. Hadn't Nate himself had said that Chuck was _good_ at being Blair's boyfriend? That day he had been trying to replace Blair's lamp in her hospital room, Nate had grinned at him, amused and perplexed at Chuck's eye for detail.

But, the fact of the matter was, that he _got_ it. He _knew_ why it was important to ensure that everything he brought today fit in with the oeuvre of the theme. He liked beautiful things and the way a room could be arranged – just so – until it was aesthetically perfect. It was second nature to him; it came as naturally to him as the desire to match his bowtie to her dress.

The thoughts formed and rose to the sky as if they were constructing a majestic cathedral around him. There, on the sidewalk on a crisp November day, after making a sex tape with his girlfriend, Chuck Bass felt for the first time as if his life was finally starting to look the way it should.

Lost in the moment, he hadn't noticed the figure that stood next to him.

"Trying to figure out where your balls went, Bass?"

The moment passed, lost in the sudden rush of dislike that always seemed to accompany Carter Baizen's arrival these days. Chuck expertly mastered his expression, pressing his happy realization deep down into his chest for self-keeping, and offering Carter a cool and detached raised eyebrow.

"Actually," he responded tightly. "I was just wondering whether you were going to steal my wallet and use it to fund your meth habit." He looked Carter up and down in distaste. "I'd say you look like shit, but I feel as if that would be doing shit an injustice."

Chuck knew that he would win this interaction; he certainly seemed to hold the upper hand at this point. Despite his embarrassing number of bags, he knew that Carter was never his best early in the morning, and judging by his rumpled clothes and bloodshot eyes, Carter was only just returning from a night of debauchery. In contrast, Chuck felt confident and alert. The weather of November suited him – the frost on each surface softened his reflection and made his dark hair stand out dramatically and the red in his cheeks from the cold made him appear to have a healthy glow.[1]

Nonetheless, Carter shrugged off his insult with ease. Glancing at his reflection, he gave himself a nonchalant smile. "This is what people look like after having fun, Bass. You might remember if you can take a break from being Blair Waldorf's trained puppy."

Chuck's eyebrows knitted together, searching for the insult to Blair he perceived in these words. Finally, though, he shook his head at Carter, making a move to walk away. "You know, your attempts at challenging my manhood may be a little bit more convincing if I hadn't kicked your ass last night. And if you didn't look like a dog threw you up this morning."

"So I guess it's true what they say," Carter called after him.

"It usually is," Chuck responded drily, not rising to the bait.

"Chuck Bass has gone soft."

Chuck laughed insincerely at that. "Trust me when I say that is the very least that they say about me."

Carter bounced lightly on his feet, clearly trying to maintain a vestige of alertness before the exhaustion of the night overtook him. Chuck remembered, distantly, what it was like to live a life consisting not of mornings, but only of mornings-after.[2] Chuck realized with a lurch that this must have been what he looked like, after one of those long nights of drinking without purpose or direction. He had thought that he looked so urbane and decadent on those morning walks, still wearing last night's clothes. If he had only known how much he had resembled a derelict, the aesthete in him may have demanded that he cease his lavish partying long ago.

"Prove me wrong then," Carter said, a hint of challenge in his voice. "Come and have a drink."

Chuck looked him up and down once more, as if weighing up the sight of his old role model. Then, with a smirk of disdain, Chuck shook his head. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to make _friends._"

"That's what we are, right?" Carter said, his voice taking on a strange aspect, which Chuck realized was much closer to the voice he had known in his younger years, when he and Nate had trailed after Carter. Even then, Chuck had admired-and-hated Carter in equal measure. Even before he had wandered into the Lost Weekend looking like an extra from _Joseph and the Technicolour Dreamcoat_, Chuck had harboured a number of conflicting emotions about Carter. He could admit to himself, now, that he was driven partly by jealousy – jealousy at the way in which Carter had lured Nate away from him even after disappearing on them with no warning, jealousy at the way Carter lived the heady, consequence free life that Chuck had, but somehow managed to be beloved instead of reviled. But, even that element of jealousy couldn't account for the breadth of it, particularly his violent reaction at Thanksgiving.

Chuck tried to make sense of why he had this primal, deep-set dislike of Carter Baizen. Blair had been right on Thanksgiving, when she had blinked at him curiously and reminded him of the friendship bordering on hero-worship that had characterized them back in the day. It was true, they had been close for a time: Carter had been one of those people who just seemed to know everyone, who was always about to arrive at some place or heading off to another. Back in his softer, formative years, Chuck may have been the 'coolest' of the St Jude's boys (not the most liked, not the smartest, but definitely the coolest), and in large part he had Carter to thank for it.

As a result, a rather predictable rivalry had grown.

Chuck may have been younger, but he could never countenance the feeling of hurrying after someone. He had sat at Carter's table because it was, quite simply, the place to be. But, while he and Carter sat, scanning the crowd, scanning their phones, tensely taking the measure of each other to determine the next move in the chess match of their relationship would take them, it had always been Nate that Carter had genuinely seemed to like. The hot jealousy of feeling his best friend pulled from his side, inch by inch, had been unbearable.

So, Chuck had perfected the bored decadence that had come to define him during his school years. Blair would have rolled her eyes if he told her today that he had always hidden the true extent of his debauchery from her eyes, but he knew that it was true. When he was at one of her parties, he would always excuse himself, slip into the back room, and allow the dark and hidden corners to swallow him before he made his move on some innocent young girl or took some illicit substance.

With Carter, though, he put it all on the table. They flaunted their conquests before each other's eyes; they downed their drinks with a steely determination never to flinch, never to say 'I've had enough.' It had always baffled Chuck, when a sleepy and hung-over Nate would appear entirely oblivious to the geopolitical warfare that had been occurring even within their little booth on a night out in the city.

But, if he was truly honest with himself, his hatred of Carter had been solidified one night in 2007, after Serena had disappeared and Blair had taken to leaning more heavily on Chuck for a social life. While he would have been eager to take her to the Palace bar, to watch her delicate neck as she swallowed only enough martinis to lower her inhibitions. With Nate distracted and confused by the stinging rejection of Serena's departure, Chuck found himself suddenly privy to more of the delicious machinations of Blair Waldorf's social warfare.

In exchange, he created for her those nights out with just a hint of daring and adventure. When she extricated herself from the warm clasp of her minions and deigned to spend the night out with him – longing for some sort of intellectual match, hungry for the feeling of equality and banter that had settled between them during that time – he knew that she would expect just a pinch of the Chuck Bass magic. He laid the scene carefully, determined to take care that her determined veneer of worldliness wouldn't come crashing down, determined not to appear less than in her eyes.

Central to this endeavour was drawing a thick and immovable line between his careful game of one-up-mans-ship with Carter and his precious moments with his best friend's girlfriend. Even then, Chuck had a suspicion that Carter's canny, all-seeing eyes would detect something amiss in his countenance: what was Chuck _Bass_ doing humouring some prissy Constance girl who would never put out? He had effectively silenced that question in his own mind; he didn't need Carter voicing it aloud.

So, one evening, three weeks after she had inadvertently walked in on Roman on his knees before Harold and taken a puff on Chuck's joint, Chuck found himself interned in his position in Carter's usual booth at Death & Co, a dark, wooden-plated speakeasy that somehow managed to produce excellent drinks and a total lack of atmosphere. He was staring blankly at the crowd, waiting for Carter to reach the requisite level of buzz so that they could move to a more ambient location. Death & Co would be a pit-stop – largely so that Carter could meet his dealer and procure some coke for the evening. Chuck had heard mutterings about a party in a film producer's hotel room later, and he knew that they would have to come equipped with drugs in order to overcome the tyranny of their age. It was certainly not a scene he would have Blair partake in, and between the unfamiliar guilt he experience with each button press – _call ignored, call ignored, call ignored_ – and the fact that Carter had disappeared to answer a call, probably from his recalcitrant dealer, Chuck was feeling decidedly hostile.

He wondered whether he should have agreed to play Halo with Nate after all.

It took Chuck a moment to notice that not only had Carter returned, but he had brought with him the very last person Chuck had expected.

"Blair informs me that her plans have fallen through this evening," Carter said, with his typically shit-eating grin. "I assured her that we would give her a night to remember."

The first coherent thought Chuck had was a swoop of illogical anger at the easy familiarity with which Carter had said her name. His use of her last name had started out as a playful term of endearment – something of a private joke in public. But, recently, Chuck had been feeling the need to address her as 'Waldorf' as a reminder to keep his distance. It had caused a level of tension between them, threatening the easy friendship that had developed between them since Harold had left the country and Serena had gone to boarding school. With Nate all but absent in her life, there was a chasm that Chuck found himself being called to fill. It had made him too alert, too responsive to her mood.

It made him see things that couldn't possibly be there; it made him read between the lines of their friendship until he found meanings that couldn't possibly be there.

"Waldorf," he nodded tightly.

She nodded at him, before sitting in the seat that Carter had pulled out for her. Although she simpered and smiled at Carter when he smoothly enquired which drink she would like, and hurried off to the bar to procure it to her, when he was gone, her eyes were hard when they fell on Chuck.

This phase was confusing: Blair's fleeting whim to enter his world, to test the boundaries of what was acceptable in her carefully moderated life. He knew that it was provoked by the departure of her beloved father, followed on the heels of Serena's disappearance. A part of him enjoyed it – this feeling of having someone to protect, of helping her dip her toe into the wilder side that Serena had embraced so entirely and so carelessly. It was also easy to justify; he owed it to Nate to ensure that Blair didn't do anything too reckless, so that she could return to his side as immaculate as she had been before. And they would share only slight smiles and hidden glances to assure him that it had been real: that it had been Blair he had all but carried home.

"Bass," she said, finally, as if the word left a bad taste in her mouth.

He was always in this twilight – always in this shadow – of her approval. Sometimes at night, when he was out in the streets and his veins were hot, his head buzzing with drunkenness, he fancied that the darkness had become a part of him. The stars, the moon, they would be desperately out of reach, and then his eyes would fall on Blair – so pale that she glowed, so mournful that his heart hurt. These moments would bleed into a hollow indifference, and he would convince himself that he didn't care in the least whether she approved of him, that he didn't care whether she was frowning at him.[3]

But, with her smiling so approvingly at Carter, Chuck was filled with bitterness; there was no discernible reason for Blair to find Carter so raffishly charming, when she thought Chuck a degenerate. He knew, thought, that his drinking wasn't the cause of her priggish looks; it was because he had been ignoring her calls and was sitting at this table with his mobile phone in plain view on the table.

For a moment of insanity, Chuck considered explaining himself. But, he quickly dismissed the possibility; in the delicate balance he and Blair had struck, any articulation would undermine the situation. So, he just sat there fuming as Carter returned and Blair rewarded him with that toothy smile she reserved for Nate and his friends. As she downed drinks, Carter masterfully moved his hands, touching her knee lightly, the embodiment of friendly affection. And yet, each movement occurred in stark relief for Chuck.

He could see Carter's mouth moving, spelling out those words that girls like Blair lapped up on the side of their salads. In contrast, Blair's words hit him in the centre of the forehead, drove home their force. He slipped in and out of listening to her, instead narrowing his eyes against her face, as it changed colour in the refracting lights.

"I promised Jean-Pierre I'd visit him next summer, at his chalet in Switzerland…"

Chuck wondered whether she noted the insincere movement of Carter's head. She had called him – when she hadn't been able to reach Chuck, she had called Carter, as if they were interchangeable. And for his part, Carter was shooting Chuck these little smiles, these knowing glances that made him feel oddly exposed. Sure, last week, he had sat in the bathroom of a party with Blair straddling his lap, and he had felt a strange wave of desire.[4] But, soon enough the moment had passed, and the world had realigned, so that they never spoke of it.

(_Her hands on his shoulders, the weight of her body on his lap)_.

"Of course, his mother hasn't been the same since the surgery. She has to announce what she's feeling just to be sure no one is fooled by her immovable face…"

(_The way his hand had touched the skin of her leg, the way her dress rode up her thighs)._

"I haven't been to El Bulli for at least 18 months," Blair said, her voice a little to jovial, her hand clasped a bit too tightly on her glass. "To be honest, I wasn't that impressed with it…"

Carter responded to everything as if it were incomparably fascinating. Chuck hated the way she threw these little observations out for anyone to pick up; he had always enjoyed the way she whispered in his ear in the midst of packed social events. Now, he felt oddly detached from the scene as she drank everything Carter put in front of her.

A crowd grew, as it always did, around them. Gossip Girl had obviously released Blair's whereabouts, so that as if conjured from the air, her minions congregated at the bar, sniffed dubiously at the creative cocktails. Blair greeted them coolly, mindful of their snarky whispers, their general disloyalty in the face of both last week's drunkenness and this month's scandal. Whenever she caught Chuck's eyes, she shot him daggers.

"You can thank me later," Carter said, following Chuck's eye line to where it landed on Blair.

"Why would I thank you?" Chuck said flatly, finishing his drink and gesturing to the bartender to bring him another. His patience was running out; he found himself uneasy in his skin, itching to move from the eyes that chastised him without words.

"You want to fuck her, right?"

Chuck noticed that his knuckles were white where he gripped the empty glass on the table. It was just so typically Carter: the crass language, the odd insight, and the way he just seemed to enjoy toying with Chuck. Not for the first time, Chuck was relieved to have Bart Bass's training in maintaining a poker face. He stole one more glance at Blair, in her knee grazing red dress, air-kissing one of her friends at the bar. She worked so hard for those accolades, strove so hard for her position as Queen. Chuck could see that she was tipsy – making solid progress towards drunk – and that in the morning she would hate herself.

Even now, when the slight cracks in her veneer gave him the minute space he needed to take certain liberties with her, he secretly wished he could do something to propel her once more into her rightful position.

One night, at Innisfree, he had struggled for an hour to gather the stones to touch her hand. And now, Carter Baizen, with his rumpled shirt and cocky grin, was asking him whether he wanted to fuck her! Chuck couldn't precisely say what he wanted to do with her, couldn't convey the extent to which he wanted to possess her, and would certainly never articulate the impulse to the one person he trusted the least, especially one who seemed to make it his life's mission to drive a wedge between Nate and Chuck.

So, he pasted a smirk on his face and let out a rough bark of laughter. "Please," he said smoothly. "That uptight virgin is Nathaniel's cross to bear. I have better things to do with my time. Although, I do feel sorry for her."

"Why's that?" Carter asked.

Chuck leaned into the table, talking in the low voice as if what he was going to impart was vital and fascinating. "I feel like no woman deserves to miss out on a chance with me."

Carter gave him an approving laugh. "You're an asshole, Bass. I'll give you that." Then, he paused. "But if you want to convince people you don't want to hit that, you're going to have to deliver that line with a bit more conviction."

With that, Carter had hurried off to the bathroom with the baggies his dealer had brought and returned wired and fast-talking. Chuck had shrugged nonchalantly, said that he wasn't in the mood to bump. Making his way through the crowd, he found Blair leaning on the bar at such an angle that suggested that she was not merely relaxing, but depending on the deep mahogany to support her weight. Chuck found himself standing next to her, his arm almost brushing against hers, as he searched for some of those harmless inanities that so many people used to fill the silences.

Chuck's head was heavy with the smell of her perfume. For several seconds, he simply stared at her. Perhaps he'd had more to drink than he had imagined. He felt strangely like a man who had just swallowed a suicide pill. Nonetheless, his only thought was how she really was quite exquisite in her silky dress that seemed to worship every curve and dip of her lithe body. He couldn't quite read her expression in the dim lights.[5]

"Is this what it's like for you?" Blair said finally, as if they had been engaged in a vivid conversation, instead of standing silently. "Never worrying about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow is going to come whether or not I worry about it," Chuck said with a shrug. "And I think you should worried about tomorrow morning after the amount of gin you've had to drink."

"I felt strange even before the drinks," Blair admitted. "It's been like this for weeks. Maybe months? I don't know. I mean, I don't know what's happening. Today, especially, I've been seeing strangely. Everything looks different tonight."

"You're drunk," Chuck said simply.

"It's more than that. Everything just looks so sharp and real. I look different when I look in the mirror."

"You look the same to me."

She made a strange, soft sound as if she wanted to speak but couldn't quite find the words. She looked straight ahead, and Chuck noticed for the first time that there was a mirror. The sight of them together, leaning so intimately at the bar seemed to crystallize her thoughts. "I don't _need_ you, you know."

He ignored the pang in his chest. "I know."

"All day I've been annoyed at you," Blair confided, still looking straight ahead.

"Are you still annoyed?"

"Not really. Not at you."

Chuck wished he could figure out a way to explain why he had been ignoring her calls, the reason why he felt compelled to protect her from Carter's scene. Now he was standing next to her, he realized for the first time that what she was seeing was almost comical: the sight of Carter running around like the cartoon roadrunner, his own sullenness as he nursed his drinks. He felt a wave of affection for her naïveté, imagining that it was in _bars_ that the parties really happened.

Perhaps he would just offer to take her home, let her sleep off her drunkenness. But, at that moment, Carter stumbled over to them, draping an arm over Blair's shoulder, making her shoot him a half-annoyed, half-amused look.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Carter leered, kissing Blair on the cheek. "But I can't let Bass monopolize the hottest girl in the bar."

Chuck grimaced at the sight of Carter's easy affection with her. Blair giggled at Carter, swatting at his hand. "You're not interrupting."

"You should definitely come with us to a party later," Carter said, as if struck by a brilliant idea. "Don't you think, Bass?"

"I don't think it's really Waldorf's scene," Chuck responded through gritted teeth.

"Blair is a scene," Carter responded.

"What does that even mean?" Chuck asked sarcastically.

"It means that it's not a party unless Blair Waldorf is in attendance," Carter said, rubbing at his red eyes.

Blair grinned shyly, a little too pleased at his compliments. "What kind of party is it?"

"A _very_ exclusive one," Carter leered, ordering Blair another drink.

"So exclusive that we probably shouldn't invite people," Chuck said sharply, ignoring the annoyed look Blair shot him.

"Count me in," she said boldly, accepting the martini Carter gave her. She was definitely using the bar to support her weight, Chuck noticed as she downed her drink. Carter still had a friendly arm around her shoulder.

"Are you sure?" Carter asked conspiratorially. "It gets pretty wild."

"I can do wild," Blair said, daring Chuck to disagree with her.

"Really?" Carter said, before shooting Chuck a suggestive look. "I'm sure Bass would like to see that." Blair frowned and Chuck wished he had the capacity to kill people by simply looking at them. She seemed suddenly more aware of herself, shaking off Carter's arm and adjusting her dress over her shoulders. Carter seemed oblivious to the changing mood. "To be honest, I always thought Serena was the wild one of the Dream Team."

At the mere mention of her former best friend's name, Blair stiffened. "If by wild you mean reckless, then I suppose that's an accurate assessment."

"She was definitely reckless," Carter agreed fondly. "But you always kept her in line. Do you still keep in contact with her?"

Something clicked in Chuck's head in that moment; his question as to whether Carter had invited Blair for the sole purpose of messing with him had been inadvertently answered. He had known that Carter and Serena had hooked up at various times, but only now did he realize the extent to which Carter was willing to go in order to find out about Serena's whereabouts. Even Chuck only knew that she had gone to 'boarding school.' He had his own suspicions that 'boarding school' was a euphemism for rehab.

"Not really," Blair said distractedly, before glancing at her mobile phone. "You know, it's getting late and I have an early brunch tomorrow. I may have to give this party a miss."

"That's a shame," Carter said, before turning to Chuck and throwing the remainder of the baggie of coke in his direction. "Oh, I almost forgot – Bass, here's your share."

"What the fuck are you doing?" Chuck snapped, looking around him and shoving the drugs in his pocket.

"I know you're in babysitting mode," he said, glancing pointedly at Blair. "But you really need to loosen up if you're going to score with those red-head twins tonight."

Chuck glanced at Blair, uncertain why it was that Carter's behaviour was bothering him so much. After all, Blair knew what Chuck's lifestyle was like – she had said it herself. No tomorrows. No consequences. No place for little girls with headbands. Of course, it was one thing to here Nate's censored version of events; it was quite another to see Chuck snorting coke. But, what really bothered him, apart from the hatred towards Carter he felt bubbling through his veins was the utterly unsurprised expression on Blair's face.

"Well," she said wryly, before turning to walk away. "Don't let me keep you. Goodnight Carter, Bass."

For a moment, Chuck watched her retreating back, haunted by the wavering image of her judgmental face.

Carter whistled tunelessly. "You're right, man. She really is uptight."

"Shut up," Chuck snapped. "I need a real drink."

It would be the last night he would spend with Carter; soon enough the older boy would feel the need to take flight and travel to far-off countries. But, even as they partied, and screwed, and drank, Chuck found it impossible to repress the anger he felt towards Carter for humiliating him in front of Blair. When he had come to the Lost Weekend, preaching the virtues of a life not driven by superficiality. What right did he have to teach Chuck his ways and then abandon him? What right did he have to make Chuck look less-than once again?

Even now, outside ABC Carpet & Home, Chuck felt the familiar wave of distaste that came with seeing Carter. Carter was too close to Chuck, his ways too familiar and his gestures too similar to Chuck's own for Chuck to truly feel comfortable around him. His head filled with blurred memories of endless nights, Chuck found himself shaking his head coolly.

"I'm afraid I have an early brunch tomorrow," Chuck said, conjuring the ghost of Blair's words from years ago. "I'm going to have to give the drinks a miss." He shifted his shopping bags in his hands. "Of course, even if I didn't have an early start, I'd still tell you go fuck yourself."

"Still an asshole, then," Carter said, his voice almost nostalgic.

Chuck offered him a half-smirk. "You bet."

As Carter turned to walk away, he called out over his shoulder. "Offer still stands, Bass. Whenever you feel the urge to have a break from the old ball and chain."

Chuck didn't respond. He couldn't be certain, but he had the strange feeling that he had disappointed Carter. In a rare moment of empathy, it occurred to Chuck that Carter might be lonely back in the city, with no friends, no life outside of his parents awkward, stuffy parties. Back once more in the gilded cage he had left so eagerly, Carter seemed singularly focused on reclaiming the glory days that they had all left behind them.

Of course, Chuck didn't have time to worry about Carter Baizen; he had Basel chairs to buy and the delicious memory of a homemade erotic film to sustain him.

* * *

Blair arrived at her mother's house with cell phone pressed to her ear and her arms full of costume bags.

"I said _authentic_ not eyesore," Blair snapped into the phone. "I want _Mad Men_ chic, not the set of a 1960s key party porno. I sent you a storyboard of what I want for the living room. I don't care whether you don't usually cater according to aesthetic visions."

She glanced around the living room, searching out Eleanor. She had brought the various costumes that she had in mind in three large costume bags. She had also purchased several _Mad Men_ era suits for Chuck to try on. He would be arriving shortly, ready for Eleanor's critique and minor adjustments. It was a relief having a boyfriend who truly understood the importance of dressing to theme. She knew that he would be just as fussy as she was about what they should wear.

In all honesty, she had wanted to include Eleanor not only because of her mother's sartorial skills, but also in order to demonstrate how dedicated she was to making a fresh start at NYU film school. It had, after all, been a significant milestone for their relationship – having Eleanor adapt so willingly to a new vision of Blair's future, one that did not include Yale sweaters and weekends on yachts.

"Well, if you want to be the one to tell Chuck Bass what you just told me, then you should feel free to call him yourself. Waldorf. Blair Waldorf. Yes, the very same. I didn't realize you read page six. Really? I didn't think the picture really did us justice. I thought as much. Excellent. Call me within the hour. Thank you."

Blair climbed the stairs, while sending the caterer she had retained a pointed email. There was something so invigorating about organizing an event.

It was strange that someone like Blair, with Blair's problems, would have failed to recognize the sound until she was right outside the door of the bathroom. When her brain finally cleared of party plans, it finally recognized what she was hearing: the desperate retching of someone uncontrollably ill.

It seemed as if Eleanor was having an off day.

"Mom," she said softly, knocking half-heartedly on the door.

There was a pause, and a bit of snuffling.

"Blair?" Eleanor's voice could be heard through the thick mahogany door. "You're early."

Blair ignored the subtle rebuke in her mother's voice. "Are you not feeling well?"

"No," Eleanor responded in a weak voice, laced with sarcasm. "I feel fantastic."

She made it so difficult, sometimes. Blair had known from the beginning that Eleanor would hardly be the model of a patient. She bitterly resented every attempt that any of them made to help her, and then would undergo a complete mood-swing, lashing out at Blair for not being willing to play nursemaid at all hours of the day and night. Strangely, the only person that seemed capable of reigning Eleanor in was Chuck. She would call Blair in the middle of the night, wanting her to perform some task or other – to run an errand in the middle of the night. Facedown on the bed, Chuck would grab the phone from Blair's hand, listen patiently to Eleanor's request, and would then either dutifully climb out of bed and put on his clothes, or politely tell her to shove it.

While Blair would wring her hands and be crippled with guilt, Chuck would simply assess whether it was a reasonable request, or whether Eleanor was merely feeling neglected. When Eleanor made those uncomfortable jokes of hers, the gallows humour that always made Blair's eyes tear up and caused Cyrus to sit darkly for hours, Chuck would merely craft a witty response, while subtly reminding her that these sorts of comments – "Thank you for the book, dear, but we might have to keep it to short stories. Don't know how long I'll be around…" – did nothing but cause them discomfort.[6]

Blair couldn't even find it in herself to resent the ease with which he navigated the morbidity of Eleanor's current outlook; while he made Blair feel strangely incompetent, strangely unfeeling in the face of Eleanor's suffering, she relied heavily on his presence in these moments. When she was alone, it was impossible to shake the feeling that she was letting Eleanor down in some inexpressible way. It seemed as if she never quite reacted properly. When Eleanor would reach out for her, she would find herself stiff and immovable. When Eleanor pushed her away, she found herself needy and clingy.

She had said just such a thing to Chuck, only days earlier when they languished in bed together. She had asked him how he knew how to act around Eleanor, when Blair herself found the woman impossible to navigate.

He had been surprised at that, smiling slightly and tracing the refined features of her face, before pulling her even closer. "She reminds me of you."

Blair had pulled away at that. "Thanks a lot."

Chuck had laughed, not allowing her to wriggle free of his grasp. Inhaling the scent of her hair deeply, he had given her a look of such gentleness and love that she found the fight drain out of her.

"You're both need to feel strong," Chuck said softly. "But both of have this great capacity for feeling. You need the people you love to be close at hand, but you resent the way they make you feel needy. It's only when you're utterly convinced that people are going to stay – that you're never going to be deserted – that you make peace with it."

"That doesn't sound like a very good quality."

"It's an amazing quality," Chuck reassured her. "Because once you've been convinced, you love so fiercely, so entirely." He paused. "Eleanor isn't used to leaning on people. She's waiting for you and Cyrus – the only people she really loves – to pick up and leave."

"It's unfair."

"Yeah, it is," Chuck's eyes had been distant. "Because you don't leave people. Eleanor just needs to realize that."

Blair hadn't been certain whether his observations were accurate or not. Only now, listening to her mother's weak voice so prickly and unwelcoming, did she start to think that he might have had a point. Surely her mother's insecurities would have been exacerbated by Blair's plans to move in with Chuck. Even though Blair knew that it was illogical to interpret her actions as anything other than natural progression – not in the least intended as a personal slight against Eleanor – she also knew that Eleanor was prone to intense and contradictory emotions. To that extent, at least, they were the same.

"If you're not feeling well," Blair called through the door. "I'll just sit out here and talk to you through the door."

Eleanor didn't respond, but somehow Blair senses a slight slackening of tension. She noticed that a small stack of books had fallen from the hallway table and onto the floor. Eleanor must have thrown them carelessly onto the table en route to the bathroom. Hesitating only slightly, Blair sat upon the floor outside the bathroom, taking care to make sure that the marble floor was clean.

"Are you reading _The Lovely Bones?_" she asked.

"I only just started," Eleanor responded carefully, her voice close enough that Blair knew that she was leaning on the other side of the door.

"It's meant to be depressing," Blair noted, before opening the slim volume to a random page. _"These were the lovely bones that had grown around my absence: the connections - sometimes tenuous, sometimes made at great cost, but often magnificent - that happened after I was gone. And I began to see things in a way that let me hold the world without me in it. The events that my death wrought were merely the bones of a body that would become whole at some unpredictable time in the future. The price of what I came to see as this miraculous body had been my life."_[7]

"I don't find it that depressing," Eleanor said, strangely thoughtful. "I find it strangely reassuring."

"Mom," Blair said, her throat constricting slightly. "You're going to be fine."

"I've got a check-up next week. I suppose we'll soon see."

Blair felt as if Eleanor had struck her in the stomach. Remembering the frank and honest way Eleanor and Chuck seemed to communicate, Blair sighed heavily. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" Eleanor responded carefully.

Blair gestured vaguely in the air before her, even though Eleanor could not see her. "Say things that you know are going to hurt me."

Blair felt a strange thrill at being so frank with the woman she usually spoke so carefully to. After struggling so hard to hide her feelings from Eleanor, there was something perverted and thrilling about expressing her thoughts. She would have to try this more often.

"Do you know why I find that passage reassuring?" Eleanor asked, finally.

"Because you're more morbid than a French intellectual?"

A dry chuckle was Blair's only reward. "Because the scariest part of facing your own mortality, apart from knowing that there are things you'll never achieve, is the thought of those people you leave behind. There's jealousy that comes from imagining the lives they will lead in your absence. There's regret that you won't be able to guide them or assist them through difficult times. And there's the guilt of knowing that you've left a hole in people's lives." Eleanor drew a deep breath, reminding Blair that she was holding her own. "I make those jokes, those little comments, because I want to prepare you for what might happen. I don't know how to talk to you about these things, so I try to do it subtly. Turns out I messed that strategy up."

"I don't think anything can prepare you for something like that," Blair said softly. "I can't even make myself think about it."

"I realized something today, when I was reading that book," Eleanor said, her voice wavering. "You're going to be okay, I think. No matter what happens. You've got people who care for you – your father, Roman, Cyrus, the Van Der Woodsens. But, mostly, I know you're going to be alright because you have Charles. At first I resented that; knowing that you'd carry on even without me."

"Mom - "

"No, let me finish. The more I contemplate what will happen if things don't go well with this round of chemo, the more I realize that it is a tremendous blessing to know that you are loved and that you love someone. I just would have liked one of those people to have been me."

"You are one of those people," Blair said, wiping at her eyes furiously. "I just don't know how to act…with…everything that's going on. And you talking like things are coming to an end just makes it more difficult."

"There's no end," Eleanor responded. "And none of us knows how to act. We're all winging it."

"Chuck knows," she retorted, bitterly. "He always knows what to say."

"That's because he saying things to you, not me. Everything he does – he does it for you."

Blair felt her eyes prickling and knew that she was crying. By the sound of Eleanor's hitching breath on the other side of the door, her mother was doing the same. For a long time, they sat together, until Blair idly made out the sound of a door slamming and footsteps on the staircase. She had hoped that it was Chuck, arriving early for his fitting. But, when she saw her step-father, she felt another wave of relief.

As always, Cyrus knew exactly how to act in moments like this. Seeing Blair in tears on the floor, he reached out his hand and offered it to her. She held on gratefully, letting her tears fall onto his shoulder as he hugged her.

He pulled back and smiled fondly at her. "Why so many tears?"

"We were just talking," Blair sniffed. "Mom isn't feeling very well."

Cyrus glanced at the door to the bathroom, his face lit with a glow of compassion. He squeezed her shoulders. "Let's get rid of some of these walls between us, shall we?"

With that, he knocked lightly on the door. Blair wanted to interrupt him – wanted to tell him that there was no way that Eleanor Waldorf would ever allow either of them to see her in a state of disarray. But, the moment he knocked and whispered gentle words through the door, it opened a crack.

Blair watched wordlessly as her diminutive step-father urged her impossible mother to open the door further, until he could gain entry. There, in the doorway, Eleanor gave him a weak smile as he rubbed the tears from her cheeks.

"I look like a mess," Eleanor said, her eyes downcast. Then, she glanced over her shoulder, embarrassed. "You shouldn't be in here. It smells like my model's dressing room in Fashion Week."

"You're beautiful," Cyrus said simply, before pulling her in for a hug. "And there's nowhere in the world I'd rather be."

Blair glanced around her, wondering whether it was really proper for her to be a witness to such an intensely personal scene. But, Cyrus was, as always, utterly unashamed by his own emotions. He never saw any reason to hide his feelings away. And, Blair could see Eleanor's tough armor fall away.

"I guess this is why they make you take vows," Eleanor said wryly, her voice dry and tortured from her violent nausea.

"Yes," Cyrus said with a smile. "This is why."[8]

Blair could do no more than blink back tears and recall her mother's words: _I realize that it is a tremendous blessing to know that you are loved and that you love someone._

_

* * *

_

A/N: I decided to split the 40 page chapter here – all references will be at the end of next chapter. Part two will be posted in the next couple of hours. I envisaged having all this as one chapter, but thought you guys would get bored reading for so long. Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed - forced me to get myself into gear and write more for this story! Pretty much all of Part Two is the party!


	16. Chapter 15: Mad Men, Part II

**A/N: Here is part two of the previous chapter:**

**_Lightness and Weight_**

**Sequel to _The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair_**

**Chapter Fourteen: **_Mad Men (Part Two)_

"This devise isn't a spaceship, it is a time machine. It goes backwards and forwards…it takes us to a place where we ache to go again. It's not called the wheel, it's call the carousel. It let's us travel the way a child travels – around and around, and back home again, to a place where we know we are loved."

Don Draper, _Mad Men.

* * *

_

**Three Days Later:**

For what seemed like the fifteenth time in the last hour, Serena's phone buzzed and rumbled on the table before her. She had woken up with a strange urge for a milkshake, and had been unable to convince Eric that he should enjoy the last few days of her company by joining her in the kitchen.

"Who drinks milkshakes in November?" Eric had grumbled, his head buried in his pillow.

"We're mavericks," Serena protested, leaning over the lump under the duvet that she assumed was her brother. "We don't play by the rules, remember?"

"The rules of nature suggest you're going to freeze to death, maverick or not."

"You're no fun anymore," she pouted, poking him in the side.

"I'll be fun in another four hours, when I wake up," he grumbled, before burrowing even further under the covers.

"Suit yourself," she shrugged, leaving his bedroom door cracked slightly – aware that it would drive him crazy. He hated trying to sleep when the door was open. At least that would force him to come up for air at some point.

Serena couldn't help but feel disappointed by her usually chipper brother's lukewarm response to her idea. Scraping her hair into a ponytail, she sent a text message to Nate, informing him that it was Milkshake Day at the Van Der Woodsen household, and that he should bring some extra chocolate syrup. Ever since they were young, Serena and Nate would spend illicit mornings together, eating disgustingly artificial snacks and sharing those dewy, awkward looks that only teenaged puppy love could bring. He would ignore Blair's calls, and she would ignore the sight of him ignoring her calls. They would steal moments together, justified only under the innocuous heading of "Friends Hanging Out."

It had been a while, and Serena was anxious that Nate and her complex relationship would preclude them from spending these sorts of mornings with each other. But, within a few minutes, she received a text message response, informing her that he was also brining raspberry syrup and that she should prepare for a culinary onslaught the like of which she had never before experienced.

Grinning to herself, Serena scrawled through the other text messages that she had received during the early hours. They were all from Blair, of course. Serena should have known that nothing had really changed. Even now, Serena did not qualify as merely a guest to this latest soiree. She would be expected to run any number of errands in the hours leading to the big event. A part of her was relieved to see that even in Blair's new Grown-Up Apartment, in which she and her Grown-Up Boyfriend were throwing a party, Serena still had a special role to play.

The rest of her was irritated that she would spend one of her last days in New York running errands for the world's most picky hostess.

When the buzzer went off only five minutes later, Serena couldn't fight a grin. It was just like old times – her still wearing her pajamas and Nate bringing her junk food. It made her nostalgic for a time before life had become so complicated by sex. Of course, when the elevator doors opened and Nate stood there in a sharp suit with a costume bag over his hand – looking every inch a movie star – Serena realized that things definitely had changed.

Not usually one to feel self-conscious, Serena found herself tugging her nightdress lower on her thighs. Because the person who stood there, grinning and brandishing two types of syrup, was definitely not the boy who had always stolen glances at her bare legs. They seemed to have tacitly fallen into the holding pattern of their platonic relationship – a safe standby she had always trusted. But, with him standing there before her, it occurred to her how easily this friendship could slip out of her hands. She had always been someone who woke up in the morning hoping to be surprised by where the day took her; she was not the sort of person who gritted their teeth and held on for dear life. But, for the time, Serena found herself anxious, needy, wanting to hold on and take stock of what she had.

And she certainly didn't seem to have Nate right now.

"You look dressy," she said, smiling uncertainly and kissing him on the cheek, wondering whether it would be too obvious to excuse herself to her bedroom and get changed into someone more appropriate.

"I know," he rolled his eyes, already loosening his tie and throwing his jacket over the back of a chair. The moment he started mussing up his own hair, Serena knew that all was right in the world – that Nate hadn't morphed into an adult over night. "I had a meeting with Grandfather."

She chuckled, rifling through the refrigerator as he made himself comfortable on the countertop. "Whenever you mention 'Grandfather' it always makes me think of a mobster."

"Might as well be," Nate murmured darkly.

Serena glanced at him, noting that when you looked passed the immaculate dress, he seemed tired and drawn. He rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache, and Serena felt momentarily guilty over her insistence that he keep her company. It looked like he could do with a few more hours of sleep. Searching about for a neutral topic of conversation, she gestured at the costume bag.

"Is that the costume Blair chose for you?"

"How did you know?" he said, grinning. "I didn't even realize it was possible to pick a themed suit. Check out the note."

Serena pulled the neat blue stationary that was pinned to the dress bag.

_Nate,_

_You're wearing this and I don't want to hear a word about it. You're the only one who can pull off a brown suit. _**That's bullshit, and she knows it. **_**I'm **_**perfectly capable of pulling off a brown suit. She's just trying to butter you up**. _Well, seeing Chuck will be wearing the suit my mother spent hours tailoring for him, I don't see what it matters. _**Just saying.** _Anyway, let me know AS SOON AS POSSIBLE if it doesn't fit. I expect you and Serena to come by around 6pm before everyone else arrives. Chuck and I want to show you around. And we have surprises. _**Plus, we have to do some serious pre-gaming.**

_Blair_ **and Chuck**.

Serena laughed aloud. "And to think, I was worried that they'd become too mature living together."

"They're still very…"

"Chuck and Blair?"

"Exactly," he laughed. "Every ten minutes, Chuck calls me to clarify exactly what type of scotch I want. Plus, Blair keeps telling me that tonight is going to be a good opportunity for me to make contacts in the film industry."

Serena pressed her hand to her heart in mock-awe. "Goodness me. All my friends are going to be so Hollywood."

Nate shrugged. "Apparently, movies the only thing of note California has given us – other than granola. And that's a direct quote."

"Is it just me," Serena asked thoughtfully, licking her finger where the chocolate syrup had spilled onto it. "Or are they both really excited about this party?"

"It's a scheme," Nate shrugged. "It's like foreplay to those guys."

"It's more than that," Serena mused. "I think they're excited about throwing a party together. And the funny thing is it's more Chuck than Blair! I mean, I'm used to her taking this stuff too seriously. But, last night, Chuck spent _three hours_ in the bathroom, testing out different hairstyles and asking me to compare them to pictures of Don Draper."

"He's also using the whole party as an excuse to quote lines from Don Draper. You know – 'what you call love was invented by guys like me to sell nylons.'"

"Sounds a lot like vintage Chuck," Serena commented.

"You sound nostalgic."

"Ugh, no thank you," Serena shuddered. "He was such a jerk when we were younger."

Nate decided not to comment on Serena's unkind assessment of his best friend's character. "I think you should put the raspberry in after we make the rest – then it can be like a delicious clump at the bottom."

"That sounds just gross enough to work," Serena enthused.

"It's been a while since we did this," Nate commented.

"What with the engagement and everything, Rufus and my mom are all about the family bonding. I think the only reason we're allowed to go to the party tonight is because the whole family is invited."

"Are they coming?"

"Mom is going to stop by – apparently that's going to help the Dead of Admissions see that Blair has powerful friends. But, Rufus is swearing off. Jenny is camped out at the Loft so he and her are having a Boggle night or something. Eric's coming, though. Is Anne going to come along?"

Nate glanced at his lap, before wiping the bench where a spot of ice-cream had fallen. As always, Serena had made a ridiculous amount of mess for such a small culinary experience.

"Blair invited her," he said stiffly. "But I doubt she'd be much of an asset."

Serena paused, her hand frozen in the air above the blender, the ice-cream scoop forgotten. "Don't say that, Nate."

"It's true," he said, still avoiding her eyes and tugging slightly at the collar of his shirt. "Even apart from having a convicted felon in the family, they're down to sentencing now. And it's looking pretty bad."

"He's definitely going to prison?" Serena asked quietly, not liking the rough tone of Nate's voice, infused with bitterness. Nate had always had a brooding streak, and certainly, the extenuated drama with his father was enough to accentuate it. But, she had assumed that after the case was done, and the media frenzy over, Nate would rally somehow – would become more philosophical. But, it seemed as if his bitterness had merely gained a sharper point. Obviously, she had been neglecting him.

"Yep," Nate said bluntly. "And there are fines and legal fees."

"Is that why you went to see your grandfather?"

Nate nodded. "He thinks its time that someone in our family learned the value of work and responsibility."

Serena swallowed her discomfort. She had always hated talking about money; it was just something that was always there. It was no more to her then a means to an end. That was what had always frustrated Dan; she had no concept of how deep the longing for money could be, how unfair the world seemed when money was just out of reach. Nate had been in a difficult financial situation before, and it had led to him whoring himself out to a forty year old.

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I should start looking into college loans."

Serena bit her lip. It seemed inappropriate to continue shoveling ice-cream when Nate looked so dejected. She wondered briefly whether she would be able to help him. Lily had already made provision for her enrollment for all four years of Brown. She knew that her mother would never have any trouble supporting her financially. Her own generous spending money was delivered rather predictably into her bank account through her trust fund. The trust itself would be transferred into her name only at 25. And, by the sounds of things, she would at that point never have to work a day in her life. But, for now, there seemed no particular way to help Nate. And, Serena had no idea how she would even go about offering.

"You know," she said awkwardly. "I would give you the money if I could - "

"God," he said, brusquely holding up his hands. "Serena – no. That wasn't why I was telling you - "

"Oh I know! I'm just saying…"

"No," Nate said flatly. "It's just – no. I'll work it out. I still have some money from my trust fund. I'm just haggling with lawyers, I guess. Just don't…you know. Let's not talk about it."

"Okay," she said softly.

The sound of the blender obscured the heavy silence that had fallen between them. She poured two generous servings of milkshake into two long glasses. She put one on the counter next to him, before patting his leg consolingly. When he glanced at her, she drew a smiley face on the side of his glass.

"You're such a dork," he said fondly.

"Such cruel words to someone who slaved over a blender for you," she said, crossing her arms.

Before he had a chance to retort, her mobile went off.

"Chuck or Blair?" he asked.

"Chuck," she said, scanning the message. "He can't remember which hairstyle looked the best, so he has demanded that I draw a sketch of my favourite – because of course, I committed it to memory – and send it to him."

"You're kidding," Nate laughed.

"I am not. Chuck Bass really takes self-involvement to a new level." Serena paused suddenly, looking at Nate with a thoughtful expression on her face.

"What? Do I have syrup on my face?"

"Chuck," she said, finally.

"Nate," he said pointing at his chest.

"No, I mean – _Chuck._ Chuck can give you some money!"

"Serena," he said in a low voice. "I thought we agreed to drop this."

"But it's perfect," she enthused, all but hopping with excitement. "Chuck loves you – he'd write you as big a cheque as you wanted. He can afford it. And you know that if he knew he'd offer."

Nate gritted his teeth in frustration. "Serena will you let it go?"

"Come on, Nate," she said, her eyes compassionate and her hand pressed over his knuckles. "It's a good solution. At least mention it to him!"

"No," he spat with such venom that she pulled her hand back and retreated for him. "I'm not just going to ask my best friend to write me a cheque. This is the real world, Serena. It's my business and I'll figure out myself."

"It was just a suggestion," Serena said softly, her shoulders slumped.

Nate rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I'm sorry. I didn't sleep much last night. I know you're trying to help, but I don't want to ask Chuck for money. He's got responsibilities now – he's got college and Blair and he just brought two properties in one year. If I ask him he'll feel obligated to say yes. I just – I don't want him to think that's what he is to me, you know? Like he's a walking ATM."

"I suppose," Serena said, her eyes still downcast.

"Hey," Nate said, pulling himself off the counter and pulling her in for a hug. "I'm sorry I snapped at you."

She smiled at him ruefully. "You did snap. And this – just minutes after I made you a delicious snack."

"It is delicious," Nate agreed, extricating himself from her grasp and the conflicting emotions that came with it, and taking a long sip.

"You know," she mused. "You could always ask Carter for help."

"Carter Baizen?" Nate said incredulously. "Are you insane?"

Serena giggled at the expression on Nate's face. "I'm not saying you should ask him to be your godfather. I just remember him as someone who could take care of business. He's kind of how Chuck used to be."

"No," Nate said flatly. "He's not." For a moment, Nate's face creased with regret, so that Serena had to resist the urge to reach out and smooth his brow. "Chuck never got himself into trouble he couldn't get out of. I wish that I could say the same."

For some reason, Serena found herself backing away slightly from Nate. It wasn't anything he had said; it was more the memories he was conjuring – of those many and various times she had been utterly marooned, without hope. Her friends had always reached out and pulled her to safety. She couldn't remember a single instance in recent memory when she had simply rescued herself, and the realization made her crave space, even from an old friend and lover.

Crossing her arms over her chest – as barrier or armor – Serena nodded.

"Me too."

* * *

It had occurred to Chuck when he purchased the apartment that one of the greatest features of the house he and Blair would share was not going to be it's stunning atrium, the rooftop courtyard, or even the tremendous skylights, but rather the greatest strength would be the two, luxurious dressing rooms with en suite bathrooms on either side of the house.

Chuck was quite shamelessly vain; he felt that if you were as attractive a couple as he and Blair, then you could afford to take your time getting ready. But, it was primarily because of issues of practicality that made him mentally praise the architect for his ingenuity. While in most relationships, the woman could dominate the bathroom in preparation for a party, with the man merely whipping in and out of the shower and letting his hair dry in the cab, Chuck was aware that the long-term success of his relationship would be contingent on both he and Blair being able to simultaneously scrutinize their images as they brushed, smoothed, moisturized, and generally preened.

Even Lily had rolled her eyes when he made that observation during their surreptitious house-hunting. She had muttered something under her breath (he had made out only the words 'narcissistic' and 'unmanly') which he ignored. He really was starting to cotton on to how this 'family' thing worked.

Regardless, as he stepped out of his dresser, his immaculately tailored suit complete with red suspenders and pocket square, he knew that what many – namely, Dan Humphrey – viewed as excessive was a matter of simple necessity.

When he reached the more public areas of the house, he found himself looking around in wonder; he had been conscripted into helping instruct the hoards of helpers they'd had to set up the party, but he had disappeared to get ready long before it had been entirely assembled. Blair had insisted that the help not be present during the period before guests arrived; she had invited Nate and Serena over for what she described, privately, as NJBC bonding. She had an almost mystical view of the power of their little foursome. When he had poked fun at her, though, she had run her finger over his jaw, as if she couldn't quite believe that he was in front of her.

"Look what's happened and look where we are. Tell me that's not a little bit magical."

When she'd given him a tantalizingly brief kiss on the cheek before hurrying away, he found himself silently agreeing. Some couples invested certain areas with special importance as a symbol for a step in the relationship – those weddings held on the spot where the couple had met, or the child named after the city where it was conceived. For Chuck and Blair, though, the most significant events of their early relationship had been within the constantly shifting geography of their friendship with Serena and Nate.

Chuck found himself looking around the now empty room in awe. There had been quite a transformation in the last few hours. Somehow, Blair had managed to transform the large entrance and living room into a glowing, ethereal well of colour and light. There were small nooks in the corners of the grand hall that were furnished as if they were living rooms from the 1960s. There were framed pictures of icons, and even the books on the shelves conformed to the era. But, somehow, Blair managed to take these little details and form a more elegant entirety. She had conjured another whimsical scene from a film, and Chuck could only wonder at the sight of it.

And then, he saw the piano.

Furrowing his brow slightly, he made his way over to it, running a finger over the surface, entranced by the depth of its colour and the elegant line of its build. Lifting the lid, he ran his fingers over the immaculate keys, not pressing them, but placing just enough pressure to make them lower slightly, without making a sound.

He had only just begun truly appreciating the many hours he had spent as a child, practicing scales, gaining the sliver of approval of Bart when he evinced a natural gift at the instrument. He had resented it during his teens, resented the fact that his prodigious talents no longer elicited the same approval from the man he'd grown up calling 'dad'.

During their trip, though, he had found himself positively itching to sit at pianos. He found himself playing those songs that Bart had always disapproved of: jazz, more saccharine and romantic classical, more jazz. He should have known that she'd noticed.

"It's a gift," she said, suddenly appearing at the entrance to the room and regarding Chuck's enraptured expression. "For you." She smiled, before adding unnecessarily. "From me."

Chuck looked up, trying to form the words to express how thoughtful the gift was – to comment on how clearly she saw through him – but, when he cast his eyes upon her, he found that he simply could not locate his tongue. His eyes were wide and dark as he devoured her, and he knew from the faint blush of her cheeks that she knew that she looked beautiful in her red, strapless dress with sumptuous layers of frills and her ladylike gloves. Her hair had been tamed into the smooth waves that had been favoured in the era and her earrings were small

Unable to find the precise words to express his gratitude, knowing that he must look like an idiot to be so dumbstruck at the sight of the woman he woke up next to almost every day, he found himself mumbling like a schoolboy. "Thank you," he stuttered.

"Could you help me with something?"

"Y-yes."

She held out a beautiful diamond necklace – a recent gift from Chuck, if his memory served. He was surprised that he didn't stumble when he hurried over to her as she stood there, utterly composed. By the looks of her devilish smile, she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

His hands shook slightly as he did up the clasp, just the way they had on her seventeenth birthday. But this time, he kissed the nape of her neck before allowing the chain to hit her skin. This time, he ran his hands up her arms and smiled at the feeling of gooseflesh forming.

Wrapping his arms around her bodice and inhaling the scent of her perfume, he finally remembered how to speak. "The place looks - "

He could sense her smile even without looking at her face. "I know," she said smugly.

"But you," he said in the low voice he knew she adored. "You look beautiful."

He had learned a thing or two about teasing from her antics, because with those words said, he dropped his arms and returned to the piano, sitting at the stool and shooting her an amused look.

"What do you want to hear?"

Her eyes were still glazed from his touch, but she recovered admirably and joined him next to the piano. "I'm in a jazz mood," she said decisively, standing next to him as he adjusted his jacket and shifted on the stool.

He played a few jaunty chords. "This kind of jazz?"

"Something darker, more soulful," she said, aware that she was obstructing some of the keys by leaning against the piano to watch his face. He dutifully adjusted the sound, making chords resonate through her as she leaned against the instrument. Without her even noticing, he began playing one-handed, using the other hand to draw her closer, into the V caused by his legs. With his spare hand, he started pulling up layers of her skirt with tantalizing slowness.

"We have guests coming," she protested, unconvincingly, biting her lip and groaning with his hands movements.

"We've got time," he murmured.

Neither of them could say who made the first move, but within minutes, Blair found herself making quite a bit of music of her own as Chuck manipulated her body on the keys of the piano.

It was probably not what Harold had envisaged when he had recommended the brand.

* * *

When the buzzer rang indicating that Serena and Nate had arrived, Chuck and Blair frantically readjusted their clothes and hair, until any sign of their indiscretion was camouflaged – apart from, perhaps, a glow in both their faces and the lazy smiles. Nonetheless, after a quick glance in the large mirror they had picked out last week, even Blair was satisfied that no one would notice the signs of their musical quickie. Opening the door to greet their guests, Blair felt a queer swoop of excitement – and could tell from the smirk on Chuck's face that he felt a similar sense of anticipation.

They were welcoming their first guests into their apartment. It was the real estate equivalent of breaking a bottle of champagne on a yacht.

"Oh god," Nate groaned, his arms full of wine, with a clothes bag thrown over his arm. "You guys just did it, didn't you?"

"Nate!" Serena exclaimed, punching him lightly on the arm. She wore a form-fitting black dress, with demure gloves that would never distract the men in the room from her cleavage. "Of course they didn't have sex. They've been preparing for a party."

Chuck and Blair exchanged smirks, comfortable enough in their old friendship with the pair not to feel it necessary to create elaborate excuses.

"Oh god," Serena said, pressing her gloved hand to her eyes. "At least tell me it wasn't near any of the food."

Blair laughed, before wrapping her arm around Serena's waist and guiding her into the house. "I make no guarantees," she said in an audible whisper, glancing over her shoulder and sharing a secret look with Chuck, who exchanged a backslapping hug with Nate.

Both Serena and Nate were suitably impressed by the 'slice of real estate heaven' Chuck had purchased, as Serena described it.

"If you _ever_ need someone to housesit," Serena said with a sly grin. "I just want you to know that I'll be happy to take one for the team."

"Last time you house-sat for someone you started a fire," Chuck commented, handing out glasses of champagne to carry for the Grand Tour.

"The fire was outside the building," Serena protested sheepishly.

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "It was started by the guests at the party you threw."

"Plus," Blair added, smiling slightly when her fingertips brushed Chuck's as he handed her a drink. "There was the unpleasantness on the roof."

"Oh wow," Nate contributed. "I totally remember this party. A few of my buddies started throwing tiles."

"The inside of the house was fine," Serena reasoned. "And I was younger then. But, I see that there is no trust left in our relationship, so I'm just going to have to contend with sleeping on the couch when I come to visit from Brown."

Chuck and Blair exchanged a meaningful look.

"Actually," Chuck said. "We can do you one better than that."

With that, Serena and Nate followed their hosts down the hall to a fairly innocuous mahogany door.

"Cool door, guys," Nate said supportively. "But I probably wouldn't start with the room with the plasma screen and Wii. It makes the door a bit of an anti-climax."

"You're an idiot," Blair said fondly, before nodding at Chuck.

When the door opened, they found a beautiful guest room – something they had of course been expecting. What surprised both Serena and Nate, however, was not the room itself, but the way it was decorated: it could have been a museum of the Non-Judging Breakfast Club. Their photos were everywhere. A glass panel on the desk protected a collection of notes that Serena and Blair had passed between each other in class, the walls decorated with signs that Chuck and Nate had stolen one summer at Nate's summer house (they had made the discovery of Dick Street around the corner from the Archibald compound, so that night, they had stolen the street sign against the Blair's strong objections).

"We have another room for guests," Chuck said, leaning against the doorframe with an expression that was just a little bit too casual. He seemed as if he was disinclined to enter the room, but couldn't quite compel himself to leave the scene. It was understandable, really; even Nate seemed to be on the verge of tearing up at the sight of so many memories, stored with such care and displayed so proudly.

"This one is just for you guys," Blair explained. "So you always have the option of staying here when you're in town."

"I have no idea what to say," Serena said, biting her lip and holding a toy skunk that Nate had once won at a carnival.

"There is one thing I wanted to say – or really ask," Nate said as he brushed at his eyes and grinned at Chuck. They all turned to look at him expectantly. "Does this room get WiFi?"

He didn't even see the skunk flying towards his head until it hit him in the face.

* * *

"You don't look like you're having much fun."

Dan glanced over his shoulder to find Nate standing there, wearing a brown suit that would have looked hideous on any mere mortal. Of course, on Nate it looked intimidatingly fashionable. It was a rare occurrence, since they'd had their rather embarrassing fight while Blair was in hospital, for Dan and Nate to simply chat. But, when Dan took a minute to assess the way he felt, it seemed as if the animosity had diminished substantially.

"This is me having fun," Dan shrugged, sipping a scotch. It was quite palatable when you got passed the taste. Regularly refilling the glass also kept Dan occupied when conversations with the obscenely rich pillars of society or the vanguard of NYU's Tisch School of Arts wore thin. He was also trying to shore up some liquid courage for when he finally approached Vanessa – already in animated conversation with the winner of the 'Most Promising Filmmaker' award in 2009. The lingering memory of Vanessa's passionate kiss with the red-headed woman kept on appearing before his eyes whenever he even contemplated talking to her.

He really was a coward, he mused as he sipped his fourth (fifth?) drink and surveyed the crowd with Nate by his side.

"Your version of fun looks a lot like sitting in the corner moping," Nate observed.

"This is true," Dan admitted, offering him a smile. "But there's also drinking involved, so that adds a few fun points."

"I'll pay that. We got pretty buzzed before the party started, so I'm trying to pace myself."

_We._ Dan didn't even need to enquire further in order to understand who Nate was talking about. By the time had arrived – a man immediately taking his coat and thrusting a drink in his hand – Nate, Serena, Chuck and Blair had been firmly ensconced in the room. Even when they were nowhere near each other, there was something in the meaningful exchange of looks and the oblique references to newly formed inside jokes that suggested that the exclusive circle had been recently re-invigorated.

He was being silly really; Chuck had greeted him with as much enthusiasm as Chuck was really capable of displaying and Blair had given him a warm hug the moment he entered the house. It may have been Dan's imagination, but the moment she released him from her grasp, Chuck had been particularly assertive in his affection – his hand on the base of her spine, a kiss on the cheek that lasted just a fraction too long for the public arena.

Dan was, however, realistic enough to understand that he could have constructed the entire interplay. But, he definitely wasn't imagining the look on Eric's face and his knowing, all-seeing eyes as they sent him a clear message: _say nothing if you value your life._

It wasn't Dan's fault that he had a ridiculously bad poker face.

Presently, Chuck and Blair were involved in an intense conversation with Mary Schmidt Campbell, the Dean of Admissions at Tisch. By the looks of things, they were charming the pants off her – and Dan was almost certain that Chuck was well on his way to getting her drunk. Right on cue, he smiled beatifically and gestured her towards the sweeping grand piano. With a showman's flourish, he even deigned to play her a few bars of a song Dan was certain he had heard once or twice.

"This is how us social outcasts do things," Dan said, tearing his eyes away from the couple and subconsciously searching out Eric for another shot of guilt.

"Social outcast?" Nate said with a slight laugh. "Don't give me that. You're soon to be Lily Van Der Woodsen's stepson. That's got some serious street cred, man. You're probably more in with this crowd than I am."

"But you're Nate Archibald," Dan said in mock-horror, pressing a hand to his chest.

"That name ain't what it used to be," Nate said wanly.

"Well," Dan shrugged. "Play your cards right and maybe one of these promising young directors will cast you in their movies. It could be your big break."

"Me as an actor, huh? Would you write me a script?"

"Definitely. But, we'd only work together when you had already made heaps of money and wanted to increase your indie accolades. Maybe you can even put on heaps of weight for it to prove your authenticity."

"I'd probably win an Oscar," Nate commented. "Are you working on anything at the moment – writing-wise?"

The moment Nate asked the question, Dan felt the familiar nervous excitement growing in his chest. Each day, more and more pages were added to a stack on his desk and his own, self-congratulatory account of the grand romance of Chuck and Blair took one more step towards completion. It was, without a doubt, some of his best work. But, he knew that the moment he finished it, he would have to stuff it in the bottom of a drawer of his desk. There was simply no way he would ever be able show it to either Chuck or, God forbid, Blair. His writing professor would also hate it; he viewed writing about real life as akin to cheating. Writing without imagination was just keeping a journal.

Dan had to wonder, though, whether that professor back in New Haven had even been at a party with Warren Buffet in attendance. Mr. Buffet was particularly attached to the miniature quiches that were circulating around the room.

"Nothing worth mentioning," Dan said dismissively, gesturing at the waiter to bring him another drink – and to keep them coming.

Mostly, though, it wasn't the quality of the writing or the merits of the composition that were in question: it was those little cracks in his fictive landscape that would allow the light to shine through. He had channeled all of these strange feelings for Blair into his writing, and he knew that it would be plain to see in his writing.

Eric may have advised him to not even allow himself to think about whatever it was he was feeling towards Blair, but in the process of writing, Dan had found himself rather captivated by the other leading character of the story. Every word he wrote about Chuck Bass – as he had been before he and Dan had even acknowledged each other, and as they were now that Dan was considered worthy of an invitation to a party – made him feel a strange sense of possessive ownership over his friend. Even now, each note Chuck played on the piano made Dan contemplate a way to put the sounds into words. He was writing as he watched – and he knew how well that had gone down when Noah Shapiro had asked him to write that article on Bart Bass.

But, the most fascinating words he wrote were about those darker aspects of Chuck's personality: those aspects that were far from view as he schmoozed and charmed his way through a packed party. Dan found himself wondering about his own deep drives as he realized how much pleasure he was getting from recollection of Chuck's socially destructive, undisciplined antics.[9]

He turned, suddenly to Nate. "Archibald. What do you say to us getting drunk?"

For a moment, Dan could have sworn that Nate was going to deny him, but it was not in the man's nature to turn down a peace offering. So, with a sense of resignation Nate clapped him on the shoulder.

"Follow me – they're keeping some of Chuck's really good stuff in the kitchen."

* * *

In the grand history of Blair's parties, this had to qualify as one of the best; she had acquired the perfect balance of artistic and business invitees and she could tell from a brief scan of the room that deals were being struck all around her. Watching the way Chuck was charming the Dean, who had even requested that they call her 'Mary', Blair found herself starting to relax.

They had already discussed Vanessa and her documentary in great detail, with Chuck supplying the sort of subtle compliments that would have been impossible to weave into the conversation on her own. They'd discussed the current Arts scene in painful detail, before Mary expertly steered the conversation towards Chuck (her mind undoubtedly on the bequest that would be written to the Tisch School at the end of the evening. Blair found herself allied with Mary, underlining to Chuck the value of the work that Tisch performed for students and the community and generally making Mary's case for her. For his part, Chuck nodded interestedly and responded smoothly, as if this hadn't all been pre-arranged between the two of them. When he had escorted Mary to the piano she had been admiring, the Dean had given Blair a nod of approval – a tacit 'thank you' for her efforts in steering her wealthy boyfriend towards NYU. It took all of Blair's concentration not to laugh out loud.

"He's laying it on thickly, isn't he?"

Blair turned to find Dan Humphrey looking intently at Mary and Chuck as they sat in detailed conversation.

"I'm almost jealous," Blair said with a grin, before turning to look at Dan. "You brush up nicely, Humphrey."

For an extended moment, Dan examined her from the soles of her feet to the top of her head, causing Blair to shift uncomfortably in his gaze.

"You look nice, Blair," he said seriously.

"Um, thanks," Blair said uncertainly. There was something strange about Dan's expression tonight – it made her slightly uncomfortable. Not to mention the fact that he seemed to be drinking rather a lot of alcohol. He and Nate seemed to have set up some sort of drinking game in the corner with some of the notable NYU students Blair had invited for the evening. "You and Nate seem to be getting on tonight."

"You know me," Dan shrugged with a pinched smile. "I get on with people. I'm a people person."

"I've always said that about you," Blair said, glancing over at Chuck and trying to mentally will him to join them. At least when he was around, Dan and he could fall into their usual snarky rapport. She'd never had trouble speaking with Dan before, but as he leant heavily on the wall next to her, she found herself searching about for something to say.

"I've never gotten the impression you spoke much about me at all," Dan said in that strange voice he seemed to be using.

"I'll talk about you a lot more when you become a famous author."

"But now?"

"You usually come up with whichever of my friends you're dating at that minute," Blair said sarcastically, sipping her champagne and raising an eyebrow when Dan gestured for another. "Scotch? I didn't peg you for a scotch drinker."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

Blair shook her head. "Okay, seriously, Humphrey. What is with you tonight?"

"I'm always like this," Dan said flatly, scanning the room. "Have you spoken to Vanessa tonight?"

Immediately, Blair's irritated expression gave way to a look of empathy. Reaching out gently, she squeezed Dan's arm. "You should talk to her. She said it's been a while."

He stared at her small white hand where it sat on his sleeve. "I have no idea what to say to her."

"You'll figure it out – you're always so - "

But, just what he was always so, Dan never heard, because at that moment, Chuck decided to saunter over to their little corner, his hands deep in his pockets with a self-satisfied look on his face. The moment he approached, Dan felt Blair's hand drop from his arm and sensed her desire to hurry over to Chuck. Dan felt an unfair little swoop of jealousy at the way her eyes devoured the sight of him – how easily she withdrew her affection from Dan and focused entirely on Chuck. When he sensed Chuck relaxing his posture, he felt an even stronger wave of guilt; it was the look of someone who could finally relax in the presence of people he didn't have to impress.

"Where's Mary?" Blair asked, when he was close enough for her to reach out to.

"In Lily's capable hands," Chuck said, shrugging. "I have a sneaking suspicion that this is going to be a very good night for Mary Campbell."

"I'm sure it will be," Blair said, wrapping her arms around his midsection. "Not least because she is giddy with all the attention she's getting from you."

Chuck rolled his eyes at Dan over Blair's shoulder. Dan felt another stab of guilt at the sight of his conspiratorial look. "I think she's giddy from the prospect of a really big cheque."

"She's going to open a new wing in your honour," Blair teased. "Maybe an action figurine range."

"I like the sound of that. I could give one to Humphrey for Christmas."

"Gee," Dan responded, a little too harshly. "Just what I always wanted."

Chuck shot him a surprised look, maneuvering Blair so that his arm was around her and they were both facing Dan. Dan felt his face settle into an even more petulant expression settle on his face. He knew he was behaving badly, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Perhaps he was even drunker then he'd realized. The small part of his rational brain that was now doused in alcohol was urging him to call it a night.

"I'm glad to see someone's found the bar," Chuck commented wryly, before exchanging a look with Blair.

"You know, Dan, you're welcome to stay here tonight, if you want," Blair said carefully.

"Sleepover," Dan said, rolling his eyes. "Fun."

They exchanged another maddeningly personal glance.

"Blonde and blonder are staying over as well," Chuck commented, gesturing at a waiter to bring some of the sandwiches to Dan. "We can all stay up late and braid each others hair."

Blair broke from Chuck and collected a number of sandwiches, thrusting a plate at Dan. "Try to line your stomach a bit."

"I'm fine," Dan said grumpily, refusing to accept the plate.

Blair placed it on a low table before giving him a dignified glare. "Fine. But you're missing out – the sandwiches are delicious."

She stood there, arms crossed, giving Dan a challenging look while Chuck looked on in quiet amusement. Then, Dan broke the stalemate by performing a rather astonishing act: without any warning he reached out and touched Blair's face – right on the cheek. Blair jumped back at the contact, inadvertently sending Chuck a shocked look. Even Dan could see that Chuck's face had gone from amused to stony within only seconds. His jaw twitched slightly because of his gritted teeth.

"You had an eyelash on your cheek," Dan said simply, amazed at his own audacity as he proffered his index finger to Blair. Sure enough, there was a small eyelash on his finger.

"You could have taken my eye out, Humphrey," Blair said breezily, seemingly satisfied with his explanation.

But, when Dan stole a look at Chuck, he could tell from his narrowed eyes that Chuck would not be as easily convinced. In fact, he was staring at the eyelash on the offending finger with such intensity that Dan was almost afraid it was going to burst into flame. Dan could tell that he was only just fighting his impulse to not only steal the eyelash from his finger, but also rip the finger off in the process. Feeling extremely self-conscious, Dan wiped his finger on his trousers, wishing that he could erase the memory as easily.

"Uh-oh," Blair commented, spying something from across the room. "Serena's giving me a 'save me' signal. Duty calls."

With a herculean effort, Chuck lifted his eyes to Dan's face, searching it with those shrewd eyes of his. With a pointed glance at Dan, he reached grabbed Blair's hand and pulled her flush against his chest. With an astounding level of raw intensity, he ran one hand up her bare arm before coming to rest on the lower part of her neck. Then, he pulled her in for a searching, passionate kiss. It lasted so long that Dan could hear Nate wolf-whistling from across the other side of the room. For his part, Dan arranged his expression into a wan, neutral pose and continued working his way through a fresh drink.

When Chuck finally broke the kiss, Blair looked as if she had been hit in the head with a brick – so glazed and euphoric was her expression. But, as her mind cleared, Dan could tell that Blair had performed the quick calculation to determine what it was that had caused Chuck to perform such an ostentatious PDA. A light of understanding crossed her face, and she leaned in closely to Chuck's ear, whispering something unintelligible, and undoubtedly dirty.

"Later Humphrey," she said, with a dismissive wave, before hurrying over to Serena.

For a moment, Dan and Chuck stood in uncomfortable silence.

"What were you two talking about before I came over?" Chuck asked casually, his eyes still steely and his posture tight.

"Vanessa," Dan said, honestly – and, right on cue, Chuck's expression cleared slightly, nodding in understanding.

"She wants to talk to you," Chuck confided, clearly on the verge of forgiving Dan for his impertinence. "You should find her."

"Maybe I will."

"And Humphrey," Chuck said, as he started to walk back into the crowd. "Lay off the booze. I don't recall drinking as improving you."

* * *

The party was winding down, with many of the senior members of Faculty disappearing with drunken cheer into the night. Mary Schmidt Campbell had been offered a ride in Lily's limo – an offer she giddily accepted, after arranging a lunch-time meeting with Blair next week.

"A very impressive party, Miss Waldorf," the Dean had said at the door. "But if you really want to impress me, show me some of your work on Wednesday."

Her farewell to Chuck had been just on the borderline of appropriate – and he had even escorted both her and his adopted mother downstairs to the limo.

For her part, Blair was busily entertaining the remaining thirty-odd guests. It was a much more youthful crowd, and she had prepared accordingly by changing the music and providing less refined drinks. When Chuck returned, she was sure that he would conjure up some more debauched games for them. It was, after all, his specialty.

"You must be exhausted," Vanessa commented when Blair joined the conversation she'd been having with Nate.

"Actually I'm really buzzed," Blair commented. "The night is young, the plan is motion, and Chuck looks pretty damn sexy in that suit of his."

"I know," Nate said in a faux-conspiratorial whisper. "Do you think I have a shot with him?"

"Probably," Blair grinned. "Which worries me to no end."

"If this were a television show," Nate said confidently. "Chuck and I would be the ultimate couple. We'd have a cult following."

"And you'd have one of those Brangelina-style names," Vanessa commented, glancing at her mobile phone. "Like Chate. Or Nuck."

"Arch-ass," Blair contributed, sitting down in one of the comfortable armchairs she'd been eying for at least an hour. Her feet were starting to feel the impact of her high heels.

"Arch-what?" Chuck asked wryly, perching on the arm of Blair's armchair.

"We're talking about what you and Nate would be called by fans as a TV couple," Blair explained.

"Oh," Chuck said wisely. "That's easy – Barchibald."

"I like Arch-ass," Vanessa commented, her eyes still glued to the screen of her phone.

"Okay," Blair said finally, grinning at the rapt expression on Vanessa's face. "Spill."

She looked up in alarm. "Spill what?"

"Who are you texting so frantically?"

"No one," Vanessa said quickly, stuffing her phone back into her bag.

"Rubbish. I know girls – and that look only comes when someone texts a boy. So who is it?"

"Oh there's a _boy_," Nate teased. "Do tell."

Vanessa bit her lip, adjusting the strap of her long purple dress as she stood before Nate, Blair and Chuck. "Really, it's no one."

"Personally," Chuck interrupted their cajoling. "I get that look on my face every time my PI calls."

"That's because you're sexually attracted to gossip," Blair contributed. "One of many reasons we're so compatible."

"And you know how excited I get when I hear about a new deal on video equipment," Vanessa said, her expression brightening. "I just love me a bargain."

"Well, that's both sad and disappointing," Blair sighed, her hand laced with Chuck's.

"What is so sad and dis-a-disappointing?"

"Whoa," Nate said, grabbing onto Dan's shoulder. "Careful, buddy. You don't want to trip over."

Two things struck Blair as Dan Humphrey stumbled into their little circle, steadied on his feet by Nate. The first was that this had to be the first time she had ever seen Dan overindulge in alcohol. The second was that he seemed to have lost the volume switch for his voice; his inane question boomed across their room, causing several guests to glance over in concern. Blair noticed Serena excuse herself from conversation with Penelope and start over to their group.

"Nothing you need to worry about, Humphrey," Chuck said, standing up to take charge. "In fact, I need your help with something if you'd come with me."

"I _don't_ want to come with you," Dan responded, swatting Chuck's arm away. "I want to know what everyone's talking about."

"And I told you it was nothing, so why don't you come with me before you embarrass yourself more than you already have?" Chuck said in a muted but threatening undertone.

"I'm _embarrassing_ myself, am I?" Dan said loudly enough to make Blair flinch. "What am I doing wrong? I'm just talking to my friends. My _best _friend." He shook his shoulders out of Chuck's grip and stumbled towards Vanessa, wrapping an arm painfully around her shoulder. "My best friend, who I never get to see anymore."

"You're right, Dan," Vanessa said soothingly, trying to get comfortable in his grasp. "We don't talk enough these days. We should go somewhere and have a talk – just the two of us."

"You can catch me up," he said in that same booming voice he had been using since he joined them.

"Exactly," she said, giving Chuck a meaningful look.

"You can catch me up about your life," Dan announced. "Your _love _life. Like maybe you could tell me about the girl your fucking."

You could have heard a pin drop, so acute and tense was the silence that followed this announcement. Blair was about to laugh – so say something sarcastic to diffuse the situation. But, when she looked at Vanessa's face, blinking like a deer in the headlights, any levity died in her throat. It was only confirmed by the solemn look on Chuck's face. Everyone else, including Vanessa's classmates from NYU, merely looked on awkwardly, unable to resist from eavesdropping on the embarrassing and personal revelations this drunken idiot was telling them.

"Come with me," Chuck spat, frog-marching him away from Vanessa and the stock-still crowd. "Now."

"Or didn't you all know?" Dan called out as Chuck dragged him off. "Don't worry – she didn't tell me she was a lesbian either."

As Chuck dragged him into the private quarters of the apartment, the mood in the room remained one of silent shock. Until, without warning, Vanessa's face crumpled and she ran from the room, out the front door.

Climbing to her feet, Blair smiled at the shocked on-lookers. "Well," she said lightly. "Let no one say my parties are dull." The crowd tittered nervously. "I hope that all of you are in the mood for something sweet, because we have a ridiculous amount of dessert coming. And Chuck mentioned something about a cocktail bar."

With that, the hostess left her guests to gossip and drink amongst themselves.

* * *

Blair found Vanessa in the building's fire escape, wiping away at stray tears that marred her previously immaculate make-up. It seemed that she hadn't even made it down to the second step before the urge to cry with embarrassment had overcome her. When she heard Blair's footsteps, she straightened her back and tried to smile.

"You didn't want to take the elevator?" Blair asked wryly, sitting down next to her on the concrete step, trying not to think about what the ground was doing to her beautiful dress.

"I thought this would be faster."

"You realize we live in the penthouse," Blair commented, her hands resting on her lap with her arm brushing against Vanessa's.

"I didn't want to cry in front of people who got on."

"Fair enough."

An uneasy silence fell between them, until Vanessa glanced at Blair.

"Aren't you going to ask?"

"Ask what?"

"Whether it's true," Vanessa said bitterly.

"Judging by your reaction, I'm assuming true," Blair shrugged, seizing on the opportunity to slide her feet out of her uncomfortable heels. "Besides, Humphrey may be a drunk idiot, but he's not a liar."

"Not exactly how I envisaged people finding out," Vanessa said ruefully. "Not how I envisaged you finding out."

"I suppose the only thing I want to ask," Blair said tightly, avoiding her gaze. "Is why you didn't tell me?" Blair rubbed her hands over her bare arms; it was chilly in the unattractive cement stairwell. "I mean, we see each other almost every day."

"Honestly?"

"Sure," Blair shrugged.

"I didn't know how you'd react," Vanessa said, her eyes downcast. "I mean, I know we're friends. In spite of everything, we've become friends. But, you're still Blair Waldorf. I just didn't know how you'd react."

Blair bit her lip. In all honesty, Vanessa's candor hurt her. It was a moment of uncomfortable self-reflection, when she saw herself as others saw her. Vanessa's concerns over her possible reaction to the news that she was dating a girl wounded her. Blair had always prided herself on her loyalty.

"I don't know why you'd think I was like that," Blair said, suddenly very interested in the cement stairs below. "I mean, I overlooked the fact you were from Brooklyn, didn't I."

Vanessa chuckled. "That's true."

"I just…don't know why you'd think I was like that," she repeated sadly.

"It wasn't all about you, Blair," she said sincerely, sensing Blair's disappointment. "I mean, I don't know how _I _feel about it. Everything with Laura – that's her name, Laura – is new and different. I just…I mean it doesn't bother me that she's girl. It's already a lot healthier than my relationship with guys. But, it is something, you know? It's something that's a little new and a little scary. And I didn't want you to judge me, or whatever. Maybe because I was judging myself."

"I'm in love with Chuck Bass."

"I'll alert the press," Vanessa muttered sarcastically.

"No, I mean, I'm in love with Chuck _Bass_. My entire life, I've been told that people like Chuck are less than me – that their sole purpose is to steer girls like me off their proper courses. I was a different person before I fell for him. I mean – you knew me, Vanessa. I was a bitch, I was miserable, I felt like I couldn't sit still in my own skin, like it didn't fit me properly."

"And what happened?"

"Chuck changed my life," Blair said, softly. "He shook it by the foundations. I've changed irrevocably because of him, and for the first time in my life, I think I'm finding what I was meant to be. All because one night I got drunk and kissed my ex-boyfriend's best friend." She seemed suddenly very interested in her feet. "I wish you had felt like you could tell me this."

"I wanted to," Vanessa said sincerely, placing her bag on the step between them. "I just didn't know how you'd react."

"I'm not mad," Blair said quickly. "I just don't like the fact you had to do this all by yourself."

At her words, their studious avoidance of each other's eyes melted away and they both smiled at each other. With a small laugh, Blair wrapped her arm around Vanessa's shoulders, trying to convey to her that nothing had changed between them, that no matter what, their strange little friendship would be okay.

"If you want to kiss, I wouldn't consider it cheating," a new voice said from behind them.

Vanessa and Blair turned around to see Chuck leaning against the banister. Blair noticed immediately that despite his lascivious words, he was worried about both of them. In his hands, he carried two glasses of champagne. He looked exceptionally serious, although they both knew he would never give them any indication of that in words. He'd snuck out of the house, largely unobserved after unveiling a lot more alcohol and some of the most decadent cakes many of the guests had ever seen. He'd known, somehow, that they would be tucked away in this hidden part of the building. It had always been his preference to take the fire escape. It seemed apt, somehow, after a night of bitter disappointments to steal away in the harshly lit, utilitarian concrete. It had been his favoured escape route after Blair had failed to tell him that she loved him that night on top of the Humphrey gallery.

He was, however, relieved to find Blair and Vanessa sitting so comfortably next to each other. He himself had been unsure of how Blair would react; it was for that reason that he hadn't wanted to tell her himself. The sight of her sitting there with a comforting arm around her friend made him strangely proud of her.

"And on that edifying note," Blair announced, climbing to her feet. "I should go and make sure that Nate isn't doing any of his break-dancing. You should come back in when you're ready, V."

"I'll wait with you," Chuck said as Blair hurried off. He sat down on the step that Blair had just vacated. He passed Vanessa a drink he had brought with him.

"So," Vanessa said conversationally. "Where did you stash Dan?"

Chuck smirked at her. "If I tell you, do you promise not to smother him in his sleep?"

"I make no guarantees," she said coldly.

"He's in a guest room. I put him on a bed, he asked where Cedric was, and then passed out in about five minutes." Chuck paused contemplatively. "I choose to believe that Cedric is an exotic male dancer that Humphrey harbors complex Freudian feelings towards."

"I'll do you one better," Vanessa said with a grin. "It's his cabbage patch doll."

Chuck gave her a very serious look. "If you're bullshitting me, I'm going to be pissed off."

She held her hand in the air. "Scout's honour."

"Well, that's just priceless," he paused briefly. "He was really drunk, you know."

"I know. But that doesn't excuse anything."

"I'm not excusing him," Chuck said quickly. "And Blair's probably going to kick his ass for making a spectacle of himself. But, he wasn't in his right mind."

"So you came out here to defend Dan?"

Chuck laughed slightly, leaning back on his elbows. "I think my record is pretty clear on the fact I would never dream of defending Dan Humphrey. I just wanted a break from the party."

"You did good. It's a big success."

"It was all Blair."

Vanessa would never cease to be amazed at the way Chuck said her name, as if the alphabet had been invented for the sole purpose of forming a name as perfect as Blair Waldorf's. All night, she had looked at the magnificent apartment and the way Chuck and Blair seemed to dance around a room without even standing next to each other. There was a new confidence about Blair's posture and Chuck seemed more inclined to smile.

"You and Blair, living together," Vanessa mused. "Things are serious."

"They could be more serious," he said contemplatively.

For a moment, Vanessa was certain she had misheard the note of longing in his voice. But, looking at his face, she knew that she had heard correctly: Chuck Bass clearly had big plans. She held her breath, waiting for him to elaborate, but he said nothing. Chuck was not one to speak out of turn, and she knew that there would be no chance that merely waiting would provoke him to blurt out the meaning behind those words.

"Chuck Bass," she said with the hint of a smile forming. "Are you planning on…I mean are we talking about…" He looked on, amused at her verbal ineptitude. Taking a rallying breath, she finally found the words, hoping to shock him into answering with her frankness. "Are you planning on proposing to Blair?"

It was a moment of such foreignness that Vanessa found herself suddenly very aware of his bent elbows and the expression on his face. He had never looked more out of place, in his ridiculously expensive suit with his hand curled around a glass of scotch. The electric light over their heads was flickering slightly, but Chuck's eyes sparkled as if lit by candlelight. He said not a word, but the smile he gave her was heartbreakingly beautiful.

_Yes._ She knew that was his answer, but he said nothing as he gave her a rare and luminous smile. He would never answer the question, but she found herself utterly astonished, as if he had shouted his answer from the rooftops. It wasn't so much the fact that Chuck wanted to marry Blair; she had absolutely no doubt that they were destined to be together. What shocked her was the way he had seemed finally to have confronted the fact. What shocked her was the promise that was in his eyes – the excitement that the thought of a life spent with Blair would look like.

Without answering her question, Chuck pulled himself to his feet. "I don't suppose I can convince you to come in with me?"

Vanessa shrugged. "I would prefer to just have a minute to myself, then I'll decide."

"Suit yourself."

Alone at last, Vanessa knew, then, that she would not rest until she found someone who would look that way at her. No matter who it was – whether they were rich or poor, male or female. The look in his eyes was worth more than all the money in his bank account, and she was envious of both of them.

When Chuck entered the hallway leading to the front door of their apartment, Blair poked her head out of the front door. Slipping out of the narrow crack, she rested her hand against his chest, enjoying the way his heart accelerated at her touch.

"Is she coming back?"

"She's taking a minute," Chuck said, pressing his hand over hers. "How is the party?"

"Getting a bit messy," Blair commented. "I think they'll be going for a while yet."

"Shame," Chuck commented. "I really can't wait to get you all to myself, tonight."

Reaching out for her hand, he took another step towards the door, but felt resistance when she refused to move. Glancing back at her, he found a heartbreaking expression on her face. She kept shaking her head – in disbelief, perhaps.

"Blair, what's wrong?" he asked gently, his voice laced with concern.

"It just hit me," Blair said, shaking her head. "You and me. Living here."

"In a good way?" he asked hesitantly.

In lieu of response, she lifted her hands to his lapels and pulled him close to her, then, she pressed her lips to his, imbuing all of her excitement into the act of kissing him. The first sensation of her lips pressed to his gave way to the hammering of his heart and the feeling of his own arms tightening around her, wanting to draw her closer and closer, until they were fused together and would never ben apart from each other again. When she broke the kiss, it felt like a robbery.

"I'm very happy," she said intensely, wiping her lipstick from his face. "You make me very happy."

For the first time in his life, Chuck seemed utterly lost for words. So, she took his hand in hers and led him back to the party.

* * *

[1] Description similar to that of Cassandra Claire, "Draco Veritas".

[2] David Nicholls, _One Day_.

[3] Inspired by "Cosmic Love" by Florence + the Machine.

[4] The scene referred to in the flashback was in _The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair._

[5] Based primarily on a passage from _Atonement_ by Ian McEwan. Some of the lines in the following passages were also drawn from the same source.

[6] Based on a passage from David Nicholls, _One Day._

[7] Alice Sebold, _The Lovely Bones_.

[8] A Jed/Abbey scene from _The West Wing._ Genders reversed, of course!

[9] Kurt Vonnegut, _Player Piano_.

* * *

A/N: I hope that you guys enjoyed that. I will try to strike a more even balance between my two stories! Next chapter: After-Hours at the Mad Men party, then the final chilli night at the Loft, with both Chuck and Blair making shocking discoveries.


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